Burning desert, Frozen hope
by cip
Summary: We are called International Rescue because we hold no allegience to a single country." Jeff said. "Rather, we are there for the whole world." Such simple words to say, but for this world we live in they are weighty indeed.
1. Prologue

**Woot, another new story! **

**Okay; warnings. First and foremost this deals with events happening in the world now, and therefore may be upsetting or disturbing to some people. Also, quite a large portion of this will be set in a country (which I won't disclose yet, I don't want to give away the **_**whole**_** plot!) which I've only ever seen on the news and have no first-hand experience of. Quite obviously I'm drawing purely on newscasts and my own imagination for the events that happen in this fic, and don't want to offend anyone who – God forbid – have been in this situation.**

**Right, that's the serious one out of the way. On a lighter note; I love Virgil. As a kid, John was always my favourite, but for some reason I've suddenly taken a liking to our dear Thunderbird Two pilot. Therefore, because I'm just weird like this, he's being used as the punch-bag for this fic. Poor Virge, he knows we all love him really.**

**And once again this is for my little sister since she's having a hell of a time with her course-work *hug*. Also, this is for Little Miss Bump, since she seems to like Virgil as much as I do ^_^ so I hope you like this sweetie!**

**And TV series or film? Tough one. This seems to follow the film more in terms of events and because the film is set nearer to us in the future than the series. On the other hand, I kept Grandma and ditched the new guys the film added (sorry Fermat, you're a nice guy, but you don't fit this story). So really I just took a pick and mix from both, so things will all interweave anyway.**

**What else.....? Ah, yes: I'll love you forever if you review! Constructive criticism is welcomed, although I will quite happily eat flamers ^_^ just to warn anyone tempted.**

**Other than that, ENJOY!!!**

Under the burning heat of the midday sun Scott Tracy felt as helpless as a little child. He knelt on the unforgiving sand and tried to keep the stinging tears back from his eyes. In his arms Virgil shifted uneasily and coughed, blood dribbling down his chin as he tried to speak, tried to seek reassurance.

"Easy Virge, easy." Scott soothed – although the words felt false and useless in his mouth. Turning his head he saw their youngest brother anxiously scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. "Alan, how much longer until the Red-Cross get here?!" He yelled, panic putting an edge to his words.

"Another ten minutes at most." The blonde called back.

"You hear that Virgil?" Scott whispered furiously, "The doctors will be here soon, just ten minutes more. You can hang on just ten minutes more, can't you?"

Virgil tried to reply, but his words were strangled by the blood that gurgled up his throat and he closed his eyes with a pained groan. The horrific puncture wound in his back had not ceased bleeding, despite Scott's best efforts to keep pressure on it. The bullet was lodged deep within his torso, having ripped up through his liver and settled in the lower quadrant of his right lung. He coughed weakly, raising his hand to his chest in a useless attempt to stop the pain.

Ten minutes.

Just ten stupid little minutes – surely he could last that long, surely he could wait long enough for the Red-Cross to get to them.

He'd waited three whole months.

He just _had_ to be able to last another ten measly minutes!

God, how had it even got to this? How had he ended up here in the middle of a Godforsaken mountain range, dying in his brother's arms?

_How had it got to this???!_

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	2. Harmless Beginnings

_Three months previously._

"Alan!!! Get back here _right now_!"

Gordon was already running before his brain cut in to tell him that it hadn't been his name hollered in anger through the house. He stopped and stared open-mouthed as Alan raced past him, seemingly intent on breaking the land-speed-record. Scott followed not far behind – possibly breaking the sound barrier as he did so.

Gordon continued gaping in disbelief as Scott caught up with the younger Tracy in the living room and proceeded to wrestle him to the ground. The red-head wasn't exactly complaining that for once he wasn't on the receiving end of his brother's wrath, but he was intrigued as to what his little brother had done to warrant this.

"Scott insulted Thunderbird Three, so Alan set the desk-top on Scott's computer to showing a montage of Three, and pass-word locked it." Virgil supplied helpfully, appearing behind Gordon and watching the ensuing chaos between his youngest and eldest brother with a wide grin. "Man, I'm sure glad I'm not Alan right now."

The red-head had to agree whole heartedly. Virgil suddenly dived into the fray with a cry of 'Watch the piano guys!' as the two got a bit too close to his beloved instrument for his liking. Alan immediately latched onto him for help, so that Scott's punch hit the brunette by mistake. This did not sit well with Virgil, who – through a lifetime of being the middle child – instinctively went into attack mode and hit back with equal gusto.

Scott rolled with the punch and, getting Virgil into a judo hold, managed to throw the younger man over his shoulder to land painfully on the floor. However, to his disadvantage it meant that Alan had the chance to kick him off his feet and he found himself on his back next to his brunette brother, who took the opportunity to smack him on the shoulder.

Gordon had to hold onto the door frame to remain standing; he was laughing so hard. For once a spectator in a Tracy Fight, and not in the thick of it, he was given the rare chance to feel smug that he wouldn't be getting in trouble for this. There was a tiny cough behind him and he turned to see the Tracy patriarch watching in silent amusement. The three on the floor had yet to notice that Jeff was in the room, and the fight was getting into the more bloody stages.

"Boys?" It was said very quietly, but somehow managed permeate through the high levels of testosterone in the room. The effect was instantaneous.

All three froze in a whatever pose they were currently in – an interesting tableau considering that if one was to move he'd unbalance the other two, and _all three_ were in that situation.

"Uh...Hi Dad." Scott said, as innocently as he could considering he had two brothers in a head-lock, one under each arm, and Virgil's fist was buried in his left kidney. Alan had his leg twisted around Scott's so that the slightest movement would topple the two of them and consequently bring down Virgil who had his other arm wrapped around Alan's waist in an attempt to pull the younger man away from himself.

"So, who's going to be the first to tell me a whopping great fib?"

"We were playing invisible twister?" Virgil supplied slowly. "We lost the mat so were trying to play it without..." This story was spoiled by the blood dripping from his nose.

Jeff raised an eye-brow. "Certainly imaginative, but I'd expect that from you Virgil. Alan, what have you to say?"

The youngest son attempted to shrug, although the situation prevented much movement. "Yoga practice gone wrong." He stated with a little more authority than Virgil had.

His Father merely nodded in reply to that. "Right. And Scott?"

"We were just messing around Father." Scott attempted to pull his arm away from Virgil's head, but in doing so over- balanced Alan, successfully sending the three of them into a sprawling heap at Jeff's feet. Their Father stood over them as they all grinned up at him sheepishly.

"Well boys, I'd expect this sort of behaviour from Gordon maybe, but _really_!"

"Hah! Nice one Scott, you've degraded yourself to my level!" Gordon crowed, pulling his eldest brother to his feet. All he received in return for his help was an evil glare, which he countered by sticking his tongue out.

Jeff looked the three miscreants over and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

"Okay, what _really_ happened?"

Scott scratched the back of his head with a shamefaced grin. "Well, I insulted Three, so Alan changed my desktop to a montage of the damn thing and pass-word locked it...So I kinda tried to get my own back."

Jeff fixed Virgil with a look that clearly asked why he was in the thick of it all.

"They were about to crash into my piano." The middle brother said innocently, as if it absolved him of all blame.

"_Your_ piano?" Scott echoed, turning to his younger sibling. His eyes momentarily flickered to the bloody nose the young man was now sporting, but it seemed to be only a superficial nose-bleed and since it had already stopped he didn't think his brother would appreciate him mentioning it.

Virgil folded his arms. "Well I don't see anyone else bothering to learn how to play it!" He retorted hotly. "So until you can perform the Overture to Mozart's Marriage of Figaro, oh brother mine, it remains _my_ piano!"

Jeff held up his hands to stall the argument before it got physical again. "Never mind that now. Scott, you're twenty seven, you've _got_ to learn not to get so riled up!" His eldest son looked chagrined enough for him to smile and ruffle the young man's hair. He then turned his gaze to his youngest. "And Alan? Please don't mess around with Scott's computer, you know he's territorial."

Alan sniggered, but nodded sincerely. Turning to Scott he smiled apologetically. "The pass-word is 'beans-on-toast'."

Gordon snorted. "Hungry were we?"

"Always." The blonde said with a little grin-and-shrug movement.

"Well, you'll be pleased to know that Grandma's nearly finished cooking dinner, so if you'll all stop trying to kill each other for a few minutes..." Jeff needn't have said any more, since by the word 'dinner' all four of his sons had lit up and were already making their way from the room in eager anticipation. "Ah ah ah, not you." He reached out and grabbed Virgil by the back of his shirt. "We're gonna sort out that nose-bleed of yours kiddo."

Virgil groaned. "Dad, I'm nearly twenty five, please stop calling me that! It's _Alan's_ nickname!" He complained as Jeff guided him out of the room.

"Virge, I'll be calling all of you 'kiddo' when you're all in your sixties and I'm a decrepit old grandfather." The Tracy patriarch laughed, passing a wad of tissues to his son to try and mop up the blood.

Virgil's disgruntled reply was muffled, which was probably a good thing.

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Was there any such thing as a quiet meal-time? Grandma did wonder. She loved her boys, and they could do no wrong in her eyes, but dinner was always..._eventful_.

"No, that was in the Shetland Isles, Gordon!"

"Why would there be an oil field in the Shetlands?! I'm telling you, that was Iraq!"

"We've never _been_ to Iraq!"

Jeff rolled his eyes at Brains, who smiled back sympathetically. The conversation had been had a million times before, and the boys never seemed to be able to decide on just _where_ Alan had succeeded in knocking out Gordon with one of the rescue cables from Thunderbird Two. They never seemed to be fussed with the actual accident itself – after all, it had been Gordon's pride more than anything that had been hurt – but every time the event was mentioned (and that was quite frequently) it would spark an argument about where it had occurred. Iraq was a new location though, and Jeff wondered what had made Gordon think it was there.

"Boys!" Grandma's sharp tone of voice made the four bickering Tracy's stop and look at her innocently – all perfectly aware of why she was getting annoyed. "Enough of that, I've told you so many times before not to discuss work at the table!"

"But Grandma," Gordon protested sweetly. "We feel that we need to include you in what happened since you can't come on the actual rescues. We feel that you're missing out."

The old lady wasn't fooled. "Don't try to act all cute, young man! And if that's the way you feel, and if it will stop these annoying repeats of who saved what, I'll hijack Thunderbird One and go on the next rescue just so that I can join in!"

There was a horrified splutter from the other end of the table and Scott began choking on his lasagne. Everyone else dissolved into fits of laughter at his reaction, and Grandma looked triumphantly smug that she had stopped the conversation in its tracks.

Alan lent over to bang Scott forcefully between the shoulder-blades until the eldest Tracy brother dislodged the mouthful from his wind-pipe. Unable to speak yet Scott looked to Grandma in mute appeal.

"Mum, I don't think you realise just how much danger you've put yourself in by suggesting that." Jeff chuckled.

"Yeah Grandma, you'd be much better off stealing Two!" Gordon supplied cheerfully, smiling at Virgil, who had just taken a sip of his drink at that exact moment and was now coughing violently. The red-headed trouble maker smiled sweetly and offered him a napkin. Virgil accepted it, but with a glare that promised later retribution.

"Okay boys, calm down and finish your dinner." Grandma said sedately, as if she wasn't the one to blame for the uproar. "You know as well as I do that I could never pilot one of the main craft." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "But I could probably have a jolly good try at driving Thunderbird Four. I was good at sailing boats when I was a girl."

Gordon's wail of horror was drowned out by the shrieks of laughter around the table.

Jeff sighed and shook his head – how he managed to stay sane in this family was a mystery! Changing the topic to something that was less likely to generate an argument, he enquired about the state of One's engine – Scott had succeeded in burning out one of the boosters on the last mission and it had resulted in a blow back that had almost blown the rocket to smithereens.

"Yeah, I think it's all fixed now Father." Scott said cheerfully. "I replaced the burnt out parts, and Brains helped me design a new valve system that would prevent any such thing happening again."

"Th-that's right Mr T-Tracy." Brains added enthusiastically. "I've f-found that by using a, uh, denser alloy than normal it is p-possible to simulate the s-same malfunction with m-much less drastic consequences."

"Well that's a relief; it's so tiresome having to fly back alone." Virgil teased, "And it's really no fun having to pick up bits of broken metal scattered over a two mile radius because Fly-boy here overheated the engine."

Scott kicked him under the table, but not hard enough to hurt. "I did _not_ overheat the engine, it was an external source that caused the malfunction."

"Yeah, you." Virgil's grin showed that he didn't mean it really, and his older brother just rolled his eyes in reply.

The rest of the meal went relatively quietly and all four boys helped clean up the plates whilst Jeff left to finish off some paper work. One by one the family filtered out of the room, until only Scott was left still sitting at the table and wondering what to do. He amused himself for a while by making an impromptu card-castle out of the place mats, an activity that still succeeded in getting him rather cross when the bottom mat slipped. Place mats were _not_ an ideal substitute for playing cards.

Almost fifteen minutes passed before a low beeping emanated from his watch, causing him to jump and destroy the whole castle. Sighing, the young man twisted the ring that surrounded the digital display, and the face of his space-bound brother appeared.

"Hey John, something wrong?" He asked with a smile. A part of him worried that John had called him personally rather than the usual family call, but mostly he was just pleased to hear from his sibling.

John shook his head with a grin. "No, I just know that Dad is busy with some work, so I thought I'd give you a call instead. Is this a bad time?"

Scott looked at the mess of place mats and laughed. "I wasn't exactly doing anything. Just give me a moment, I'll put you on the big screen." He left the table, entered the lounge area and flipped a switch on the desk. As the large plasma TV screen flashed into life with the video feed from Thunderbird Five, the eldest of the Tracy brothers threw himself onto the sofa and grabbed a cushion to make himself comfortable – generally once he and John started talking they'd be there for hours.

"There we go, now, what's up with the world?" He said with a grin.

John ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Absolutely nothing. Or rather, nothing anyone wants our help with." He typed something into the keyboard that Scott couldn't see and shook his head. "Nope, still no change. There's been a minor earthquake in Southern China, but it only shook a few roof tiles off, and India's monsoon season has just started, but has yet to cause any major flooding." He looked back at Scott and shrugged. "It's a quiet world tonight."

"Well, let's not jinx it then; I for one am glad for the break." Scott folded his arms behind his head. "It's been hectic enough these past few weeks, if the world has decided to stay saved for a while who am I to complain?"

John snorted. "You sound like a tired superhero! Who's that cartoon one, from a Pixar film? Mr Incredible! You sound like Mr Incredible."

"What?!" Scott glared at his younger brother. "A tired family man, well past his prime and trying to relive his glory days? Hell no! I'm more like....I'm more like Spiderman."

"Spidey? You must be kidding!" The blonde chuckled.

"I see no reason why not! He's slick, cool, has a secret identity, knows all the moves to catch the bad guy." Scott said defensively. He grinned when John began laughing outright – this was a discussion the two of them had had nearly every night as children, and it was always nice to bring it up every now and then as adults. In many ways it made him feel like a kid again, and sometimes – just sometimes – he got so lost in the world of superheroes and villains that he half expected his Mother to walk into the room, just as she had when they were kids. It was one of the main reasons he often started the discussion again, just for that feeling that maybe she was only in the other room.

Shaking the somewhat depressive thoughts from his mind, Scott raised an enquiring eyebrow at his brother. "Well? Who do you think I'd be then?"

John frowned pensively, actually putting a bit of thought into the answer as he swivelled his chair from side to side.

"I think you'd make a good Captain Planet." He said finally, putting as much seriousness into the verdict as he would if he were discussing the next mission briefing.

Scott gaped at him. "_Who_?!"

"Well, you did once have a duvet cover with him on, and an action figure of him, and there was that alarm clock and-"

"Yes, yes thank you." The brunette folded his arms mulishly. "Fine then, I won't argue that for now. But what about you?"

John waved an empty chocolate bar wrapper at him. "Was there ever a Chocolate Man or something?" He asked with a grin.

"There was Banana Man."

"No good, I don't like bananas." He drummed his fingers on Five's consol. "You're not gonna let me be anyone good if you can't be Spidey, are you?"

Scott grinned and shook his head. "Nope."

The image of his brother sighed. "_Fine _then. If you're Spiderman, who would I be?"

The eldest Tracy boy contemplated this silently for a moment. His brother was elusive, very clever, an enigma to anyone who didn't know him, solitary to the point of reclusiveness...

"Ironman." He said triumphantly. "You'd be Ironman!"

John raised an eyebrow at him. "How'd you come to that conclusion? Not that I'm complaining."

Scott reeled off his reasoning, setting his younger sibling off laughing again. It was a good feeling, hearing his space-bound brother laugh so much – they would definitely need to get together and play a prank on Gordon or something the next time John was on leave; he had a feeling that it had been a while since the astronaut had enjoyed himself this much.

Said astronaut was currently wiping his eyes, still chuckling. "Right, so that's us sorted, who would Virgil be?" He began laughing again as he watched Scott stand up and pose with an imaginary sword and shield.

"He'd be Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Felix legions." The pilot stated grandly.

"Scott, Gladiator is _not_ a superhero!"

Scott grinned and slumped back down onto the sofa. "No, but you try to think of someone better." He challenged. John had to admit that he couldn't – Virgil was a tricky one since there weren't many (if any) superheroes that used art or music as their weapons. Running through his mental checklist of heroes that he had installed as a child he had to concede defeat and agree to allow Gladiator into the little pantheon.

"Okay then; Gordon." He said, already preparing for the barrage of water-type supers that Scott would be sure to send his way. As it was his older brother managed to surprise him once again.

"SuperTed."

"_What_?!?"

"You heard me; SuperTed."

John nodded dazedly, not at all sure what planet Scott was currently operating on. "I heard you alright, I just didn't believe you. How can _Gordon_ be put in the same league as _SuperTed_?"

"Quite easily." Scott folded his arms and straightened his back; a classic warning sign that he was about to impart what he deemed to be vital information – lecture mode. "If you think about it, he fits in rather nicely." At John's 'please explain' look, he elaborated. "Normally all we see is prank loving, idiotic Gordon. A soft, fluffy, water loving kid. But when we get a rescue call, BAM! It's like he peels off the idiotic exterior and we've got a cool, level-headed and dependable member of International Rescue." He grinned.

John shook his head in silent wonder. "I can not believe you not only compared Gords to SuperTed, but then came up with a deeply insightful, philosophical reasoning to back it up. Scott, you have _way_ too much time on your hands!"

The culprit held up said hands in mock surrender, "You asked for the reasoning, I can't help it if I think about these things too much." He said cheerfully. "Now. This only leaves Alan. The moody-"

"Surly."

"Childish."

"Occasionally lovable."

"Little brat."

There was a moments pause before they both said in unison:

"Robin."

The laughter echoed around the room. Maybe it was a little harsh comparing their little brother with Batman's useless side-kick, but it was keeping them amused. In a world where their lives revolved around the next rescue they jumped on the chance to kick back and relax a little. That was probably a very good reason as to why Gordon tended to make their lives a veritable nightmare with his practical jokes in the lulls between missions. Ah well, they all loved him really, and Alan at least gave as good as he got pranks-wise.

"So," Scott began, once his chuckles had died down. "Back in the real world, anything interesting happening with the stars?" His interest in the cosmos wasn't exactly huge, but he would happily endure a lecture on the state of the solar-system just because he knew that his brother wouldn't get the chance to tell anyone else. Virgil would feign polite interest, Gordon would pointedly yawn, Alan was interested but tended to get side-tracked and interrupt and Jeff didn't have time as much as he would like to talk for hours about the stars. So Scott was happy to get an earful about what ET was up to.

At the question, John lit up. "Well, one of the red giants in Andromeda went nova a few days ago." He replied enthusiastically. "I caught the whole thing on laser disc thanks to the fast-play camera I installed in the long-range telescope. I can get a fantastic resolution with that thing so I've sent the recording to NASA; they've been bugging me for more stuff since I had my last book published." He flicked a few keys on one of the monitors Scott couldn't see, going through the rest of the astral data he'd been observing that he thought the older Tracy might be interested in. "I've been able to get the Tracy Quasar in greater resolution too; it's fantastic being able to see the beginnings of a galaxy in such detail! Although I'll admit that it still freaks me out to think that I'm looking back in time." He said with a laugh.

Scott shook his head. "Well, you know me; I'll fly Three, I'll man Five, but the world of astrophysics is a closed book to me, sorry Star-Man."

The nickname made John grin – he'd acquired it early on in his life, and subsequently was now sick of the David Bowie song that went by the same name. This meant that every birthday Gordon would give him a card that blared it out the moment he opened it.

"Never mind, I still have to bore you with the changes I made to the lenses in the ten-point magnification telescope on the-"

A shrill beeping interrupted John, and he spun his chair away from the webcam to grab the radio-microphone. A frantic voice came through, gabbling in a language that Scott couldn't even identify, let alone hope to translate. As it was John replied swiftly and fluently in whatever the dialect was, a frown that Scott could only see in profile beginning to form. The conversation lasted barely over two minutes, and even though Scott couldn't understand a single word exchanged, he recognised the structure of the dialogue as John calmed the person, inquired details and finally reassured them that help would be on its way.

The moment the call was terminated, the blonde Tracy spun back to face his older brother.

"Well?" Scott demanded before John could say anything.

"Call the others Scott, we've got a rescue."

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**And what a cliché way to end a chapter ^_^ Meh, it'll do for now, since I can promise that this up-coming rescue will be anything BUT cliché!**

**And please review, I'll give you a hug if you do!**


	3. A Tricky Business

**Dear God, an update.......**

**Well, this bug has bitten me and bitten me hard; this story is all I can write at the moment 0_o.**

**So, we have chapter tree :D We find out what the rescue is (dun dun duuuun!!!) where the rescue is (how thrilling) and a little more insight into the reason for the first chapter (and stop asking, I'm not telling you if Virgil dies or not! Although considering that my other TB fanfic is a death fic.....*snigger*)**

**Hmmm, I should **_**probably**_** thank the awesome Squid for her beta-reading skills. And seeing as I'm feeling benevolent, I will; THANK YOU SQUIDDY!!!! (And you can blame her for all typos/ things that don't make sense and things that are just plain **_**wrong**_**. Hey, I'm her big sister, I'm allowed to be really mean to her, it's my right! ^_^ Anything else to add here....? I don't think so.**

**By the way, I tried to be as accurate as possible with the place that they're going (although I made up the name of the village). This involved hours spent trawling the National Geographic website and Google maps. I can safely say that the jets mentioned are authentic too :D 'cause I'm anal like that. Oh, and before anyone asks, yes Sky has a satellite and yes Sky shows Disney movies ^_^**

**Loves you all :D But I'll love you more if you review........**

**xoxox**

_The moment the call was terminated, the blonde Tracy spun back to face his older brother. _

"_Well?" Scott demanded before John could say anything._

"_Call the others Scott, we've got a rescue."_

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Scott hit the emergency call button, sending the siren echoing throughout the house. He had to wait impatiently for the rest of his family to file into the room, since he knew from experience that John wouldn't say what was up until the whole group was there.

It wasn't long before everyone had run to the room, Gordon in his swim-trunks and dripping all over the carpet much to Grandma's dismay.

"Mother, the carpet can wait." Jeff sighed, halting her rant at the young red-head. He turned back to the TV-screen. "What is it John?"

John was searching through the atlas program, but looked up at his father's question.

"Landslide in a remote mountain village. Half the population are buried and the rescue services refuse to go anywhere near it."

Jeff frowned at that detail, but Scott was already organising things and Virgil was going through the pod equipment needed.

"– Mole, Excavator, Domo, we may need some of the fire fighting stuff so that will mean the Fire trucks–"

"We'll never be able to fit it all in one pod!" Scott interrupted.

Virgil fixed him with a steady glare. "Just watch me try."

"Boys!" Jeff held up his hand to quiet them and turned back to the on-screen space-monitor. "John, why won't the rescue services help, where is it?"

John frowned, concern laying itself over his normally cheerful face. "Nangarhar province. Afghanistan."

A shocked silence settled over the room.

It wasn't a name to strike fear into ones heart, but it definitely caused a lull in the conversation. It was a dangerous place and they all knew it. What with the insurgents and militia having the run of the mountains and the terrain itself hostile to anyone who didn't know it, it was suddenly more understandable as to why the normal rescue services were hesitant.

Jeff sighed heavily, resting the heels of his hands against the table ad hanging his head as he tried to think what would be the best course of action. International Rescue was built to deal with difficult places but this was something else – _Mars_ was more hospitable than that province right now! Looking back up, he addressed Thunderbird Five again.

"What are the details you have so far, John?"

John looked down at the hurried notes he'd taken and frowned. "Well unfortunately the man who sent in the call was trying to speak in Punjabi, which I speak, but it wasn't his first language and he wasn't very clear." He scanned his writing. "I didn't catch the name of the village, but I got a fix on the GPS by pin-pointing his signal. It's down in the****Safīd Koh mountain range, near the Pakistani boarder, the GPS said it's called..." He frowned at the screen for a moment. "It's called Deh Ghushtara Mena."

Gordon blinked at his older brother. "That was a hell of a name!" He said in amazement. "John, I am _impressed_!"

The blonde Tracy smiled tightly, but didn't respond and went back to his notes. "Well, said village – and I'm not repeating that mouthful – flooded in the early onset rains up there and there's been a landslip."

There was a groan from Scott. "You mean a mudslide then?" He asked rhetorically. "That's just made everything even worse!" There was a collective nod from his other three brothers. Mudslides were dangerous for everyone involved and people usually died even once International Rescue was on the scene. It was a Thunderbird's worst nightmare; having a person die on the rescue, and there was very little they could do to prevent it when Mother Nature decided to play nasty.

Virgil was the first one to really pull himself together. "Okay, scrap the Fire-trucks and Mole, but we may need Four if a river is involved." He said firmly.

Scott followed his brother's lead. "I suggest some jet-packs as well, just in case, but I still don't see how all this will fit in Two." He held up a hand to stop his brother's protest. "But I trust you when you say that it's possible. More importantly right now is communication; I don't know about any of you guys, but my Punjabi is non-existent."

One of the things each of the brothers had decided on when International Rescue was first founded, was that a wide range of languages would be very useful. This meant that between the five of them they aimed to cover most of the world's major languages at least to the degree that they could get a vague idea of what was going on. Of course the most common languages – Spanish, French, Mandarin and the like – were learnt by all of them, but beyond that it pretty much became 'pick a continent'. Unfortunately for this situation it was John who covered the Middle East.

"I know a little Arabic." Alan supplied, not looking very thrilled with his admission. "Enough to deal with the situation at least, but I don't know if that's a common enough language in that region to be helpful."

"Everything's helpful, Alan." Scott said with a nod. "And Arabic's likely to be very useful." He looked around. "Anyone else?"

Gordon waved his hand with a little _pfft_ of laughter. "You're kidding, right? Unless they speak French out there I'm well out of it, I do the European languages, remember?" He turned to his remaining brother. "Virge? You cover some of Asia, anything good?"

Virgil shrugged. "Hindi and Guajarati? They may be similar to Punjabi, I'm not sure, but hopefully we'll be able to string something together between us. And John can translate otherwise." His blonde brother nodded in confirmation.

And just like that they'd silently made the decision. The Thunderbirds did not care for their own safety when the lives of others were at stake. No mission had been refused before on safety ground, and they weren't going to start with this one.

Jeff watched his boys in silent pride. They were every bit the altruistic guardian angels the world saw them as, and now that they'd heard about this latest disaster they were spreading their wings to fly once more. They were enough to make any parent burst with pride a thousand times over. And worry a thousand times over. He turned make to the monitor.

"John, do the UN have any forces in that area?"

The astronaut turned away for a moment to check a computer screen then swung his chair back to face them, a frown on his face. "Negative. It's considered a hostile zone, and the terrain doesn't allow for easy access. The Brits have a base about sixty miles from the village; I'll contact them to see if they can assist with casualties."

"FAB John." Jeff turned to his earth-bound sons. "Right boys, Thunderbirds Are Go."

_And for the love of God be careful._ He added silently.

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John hit the consol of his beloved 'Bird with his fist in exasperation. The mountains were killing his radio signal and it seemed impossible to patch a signal through to the army base that he'd spoken of. He glared at the computer screen as if will power alone would do the job and irritably tore the top off the third bar of chocolate that he'd eaten in the past ten minutes.

"Come _on_ you stupid thing! You're supposed to be the most advanced piece of machinery known to mankind, _find a damn signal_!" It didn't solve the problem and he felt little better for swearing at it. It was his _family_ out there! His _brothers _flying headlong into one of the most hostile places on the planet.

Turning to another computer screen he scanned through the list that was displayed on the screen: A comprehensive index of every news report on the area from press across the world filed in the last month. None of it was very heartening.

The place was as bleak and barren as he'd imagined, and it appeared that the village they were going to was only there because it was a convenient rest point between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Hopefully they wouldn't run into any of the people who tended to use the place as such.

There was a sudden beeping from one of his other screens and he spun his chair round to face it.

"Yes!!!" It had finally found a signal! Well, in a way.

Thunderbird Five was a formidable piece of equipment and International Rescue couldn't be held accountable for using others technology, something which John tended to exploit at every opportune moment. In this case his 'Bird had outdone herself. She had not only found the signal, but had had to route through four commercial satellites to do so, not to mention three military ones that China, Russia and Israel would swear they'd never seen before if they were asked. If only the world knew that their supposedly secure technology was so easily hacked. Hell, John had downloaded half of Disney's classics by piggy-backing Sky's main satellite.

At least this time he was using his hacking knowledge for legitimate reasons. Turning on his speaker he patched through the call. There was a tense moment's wait as the radio crackled and spat static at him, before – much to his great relief – a stern voice barked out a response.

"Who is this?"

_Thank God!_ "This is International Rescue, I need to speak to the commanding officer immediately." John replied crisply.

"I am the commanding officer; Sergeant Millen of the 3rd heavy dragoons, Yorkshire Regiment, Blake Base. What's all this about?" It was the quintessential British accent, stereotyped in any amount of war films and shows.

"Sir, we've had a distress call about sixty miles out from your position. We may need medical assistance with the civilians." The blonde looked across the information he'd gathered on the area. "We recognise that it's not easy terrain for your equipment, so we'd transport any casualties to you in our own vehicles. Is this alright? It's either you or we'd have to take them an extra ninety miles to an American base, we could lose anyone who's critical in hose extra miles."

There was an irritated sigh on the other end of the line. "You don't need to labour the point, young man. Your people may bring casualties here, although we aren't equipped for large numbers."

John had to smile at the gruff tone, thoroughly relieved at the good news. "Thank you sir, your help will be much appreciated."

"Just tell your people to be careful out there." Sergeant Millen said brusquely and cut the connection. John turned the radio off and flicked the connection to Tracy Island on, spinning to face the webcam all in one movement.

"Thunderbird Five to Tracy Island and Thunderbirds One and Two, come in please." A blue light flared on his consol, telling him that Scott had once again beaten his brothers and father to answering the call first.

"Thunderbird One reading you loud and clear Johnny-boy."

"Thunderbird Two here." The green LED lit up announcing Virgil's connection and half a second later their father linked in.

"Yes John?"

John glanced at the computer digital clock. "Two point three seconds for all three connections, that's a new family best, guys." At his Father's raised eye-brow he cleared his throat. "But that aside, I've talked to the British base there and they've agreed to help with any casualties there'll be. You'll have to act as transport though."

"Figures." Virgil sighed, although John knew his little brother didn't really mean to sound so peeved. The Thunderbird Two pilot would happily have flown to Pluto and back multiple times if it meant helping someone.

Jeff smiled at his middle child's reaction – Two often ended up as little more than a passenger aircraft in these sort of rescues. "Good work John." He nodded to the three images of his children that were on the TV screen. "Okay boys, let me know when you're at the danger zone."

Scott and Virgil both affirmed this and cut the connection. John, however, stayed on a little longer. Jeff recognised his son's worried frown and smiled gently. "They'll be fine John."

The blonde nodded with a sigh. "I know; I just feel useless up here."

Jeff sighed, knowing full well that there was little he could do or say to make his son any happier with the situation. This was the problem with Thunderbird Five being manned; it meant that someone would always be left out of the rescues.

"John, you know there's nothing I can do or say to make you feel any better about not being out there with the others-" He began, but his son waved him into silence.

"I know Dad, I just..." He stopped and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. "I'm just frustrated I guess." Automatically he reached into one of the many drawers lining his work station and pulled out a bar of Dairy Milk chocolate. Jeff raised an eyebrow in amusement and John frowned defensively. "What? I'm stressed, I need the sugar."

The Tracy patriarch nodded his head indulgently. "Sure you do, just don't have too many; you need to be fit for action when you're on planet-leave, not in need of the gym."

John stuck his tongue out childishly, but couldn't help a grin of amusement as well. "There's a gym up here Dad, remember? It was the only way to keep Gords from going nuts whilst he was on duty." He pointedly pulled the wrapper off the chocolate and snapped a chunk off. "So, until we hear from the others I'm going sit here and binge on chocolate to keep myself from worrying too much."

Jeff laughed and nodded. "Alright, I'll talk to you soon."

"FAB Dad." John cut the link.

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Alan stared out of Thunderbird Two and across the terrain they were skimming over. Dull, dusty swathes of lifeless sand stretched into the blue distance, which marked the beginning of the foot-hills of the mountains they were aiming for.

"We're passing over Helmand at the moment." Virgil's voice was quiet, as if he was afraid to break the silence they sat in. At his comment Gordon pulled himself out of his chair to gaze down on the land with a little more interest. What ever he was expecting, it wasn't there, and he sank back into his seat with a bored sigh.

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two, how you guys doing?" Scott's voice crackled through the intercom, and Virgil smiled wryly.

"You can see for yourself." He waved sarcastically at the bulk of his brother's ship as it cruised along-side them. Just beyond the International Rescue machine he could see two Aermacchi MB-339CD's barely keeping pace with the Thunderbirds. Glancing out of the port window a smile briefly crossed his face when he saw the matching pair of jets on that side were also lagging. And to think; he and Scott were flying relatively _slowly_ to allow the four chaperones to stay alongside them.

It had been a necessary precaution that the United Nations had insisted on the moment Jeff informed them that the Thunderbirds would be flying through the area. It meant that their flying time was severely lengthened, but also insured that they had the protection needed in-case of an attack. International Rescue could defend itself, but not at the cost of lives, and as Mr Tracy always reminded them; 'We are called International Rescue because we hold no allegiance to a single country. Rather, we are there for the whole world.' And that meant that they did not get involved with war.

It had been something the world just didn't like to accept though. John was still inundated with calls demanding back-up from various fractions across the globe. Even if NATO and the UN had grudgingly accepted that the exceptional technology of International Rescue would not be used offensively, single people didn't seem capable of getting their heads around it and there would often be irate callers demanding that the Thunderbirds 'did their bit' in the war against terror. Or in any war for that matter.

"You know what I mean, Virge." Scott said with a sigh.

They were flying close enough that Virgil could just see his older brother running a hand through his hair in a fashion that stated he was severely stressed out.

"We're fine I guess. Our little entourage is certainly taking some getting used to though." The brunette replied, glancing at the trailing jets again.

"I don't like it any more than you do." Scott tapped a few keys on his consol and frowned at the on-screen information it produced. "Huh, I could have been there by now." He groused, causing Virgil to smile at his tone of voice. Scott was about to complain about the way the jets were being flown when his long-range com lit up, and he activated it almost gleefully. "Hey John, any news?"

"That was quick, I didn't even say anything." John sounded amused at his brother's obvious anxiety. "There's been no fresh call from the area, although I wouldn't say that's a good thing. On the plus side you'll be out of UN covered territory in under five minutes, so you'll be back to full speed from then on."

Scott let out a sigh of relief, momentarily resting his head back against the chair he sat on. "About time too! I recognise why we need these guys, but the situation will only have got worse in the time we've spent letting them babysit us." He grinned despite his complaint as John laughed softly. His space-bound brother began to say something else, when there was a distant beeping across the com.

"Ah, hang on Scott; I've got another call coming through."

The Thunderbird One pilot waited impatiently as a faint, garbled conversation from the space station filtered through to him. It irked him when he didn't know exactly what was going on everywhere. There was a squeak from the com, consistent with John's chair swivelling round, then his brother's voice filled One's cockpit again.

"That was the commander for your escort; they're needed back at their base so they're leaving you now." The astronaut reported. "I told him you'll be fine from here."

"We'd have been fine from the word go." Scott grumbled. A flash of movement outside caught his eye, and he glanced out of the panoramic windscreen to see the two jets beside him roll onto their sides and break away from the formation, presenting a nice view of the Italian military insignias.

As they did so a second voice crackled through Scott's com-link, speaking quickly in a language he recognised, but had no hope in answering in. He was lucky, therefore, that he didn't have to and Gordon from Thunderbird Two replied fluently.

"What was all that?" Scott heard Alan ask.

"I'm assuming that was our escort saying their fond farewells?" The Thunderbird One pilot added sarcastically. He grinned as Gordon laughed.

"Yeah, they were pretty much repeating what John had just told us. I guess none of you guys have kept your Italian up to scratch, huh?"

"Why bother when we have you?" Virgil asked lazily. "No, don't answer that! John, are we clear to go to full speed?" He could practically hear Scott chaffing at the bit as he directed the question to their brother.

John muffled a laugh. "FAB. Thunderbirds One and Two, proceed to the danger zone at full speed."

"_Finally_!" There was a terrific roar of engines as Thunderbird One almost trebled its speed, causing the invisible boarder they'd just crossed to drop away into the distance.

Virgil laughed at his brother's response, but as much as he would have liked to be able to do the same, Two's engines just weren't up to such acceleration. Instead the green behemoth increased her speed somewhat more ponderously, but with more decorum.

"Hey, Gordon?" Alan asked, leaning forward in his seat to poke the red-head gently in the side. His brother jumped and glared at him in minor annoyance, a 'what do you want' expression written across his face. "Well done with the Italian back there, I couldn't understand a single word either of you said."

Gordon's frown morphed into an embarrassed grin. "I'm in charge of the European languages, so what did you expect? If it had been Africa we would have been turning to you with the dull looks of incomprehension." He went back to staring out of the huge wind-screen at the now rapidly moving landscape. "But it would be useful to have John with us at the moment. He's the Eastern languages guru."

"I'm with you in spirit, guys." John's voice sounded tinny through the com-link, but they could hear his laughter despite that.

Virgil patted the tiny webcam that was facing him, as if he was patting his brother on the head. "Good to hear it Johnny-boy." The video link from Five wasn't on, but Virgil could still tell that the blonde had stuck his tongue out at him in retort. "How long until we reach the danger zone?"

"Another couple of hours at most. Scott should be there in the next fifteen minutes so things will hopefully be organised by the time you get there." John watched the image of his brother on the screen nod in reply. "Virge..."

Virgil glanced at the webcam again, this time in concern at the tone of his brother's voice. "What?"

"You guys be careful, alright?"

"Aren't we always?"

John sighed, running a hand back through his hair – a sure sign that he was stressed – although the trio in Thunderbird Two couldn't see the action. "Yeah, it's just that this is a mudslide. You know how mudslides can be."

The Thunderbird Two pilot glanced back at his younger brothers, then fixed his gaze back firmly on the horizon. "We'll be fine." He realised he'd snapped the statement, and sighed heavily. "I'll look after them, I promise."

John's fears weren't unfounded. The last mudslide they'd helped in – a rather impressive one in the Korean mountains – had almost cost them one of their own members. The original slide had been caused by a large earthquake in the region, and it had taken them almost a day to evacuate the area and rescue the trapped. Most of the trapped anyway. Gordon had heard a group of people still stuck within their house by the walls of earth, and had gone back for them without informing his brothers. An aftershock had brought the house down on top of him and the family of five, burying them beneath the thick mud.

It had been solely down to the tiny GPS tracking dot in Gordon's suit and John's expertise on Thunderbird Five with the accompanying computer program that had enabled Scott and Virgil to find their brother. The aquanaut had suffered major head trauma, oxygen starvation and severe abdominal injuries which had required months of intensive medical care. And he'd been lucky. Everyone else in the house had suffocated. It was only owing to Gordon's much greater lung capacity due to swimming and his free-diving training that he had held out long enough for his brothers to find him.

Virgil shook the terrible memories from his mind. He would _never_ let that happen to any of his brothers ever again! He glanced back at the webcam when he heard John's stressed sigh, and smiled gently.

"I won't let anything happen to them, John." He said, quietly enough so that their younger brothers couldn't overhear. "We'll all be careful."

"Thanks Virge, I needed to hear that." John let his head come down to rest on Five's consol with a 'thunk'. "Damnit, I wish I could be there to help you guys, this is just like how it happened last time."

"Except that this time we've put certain safety measures in place." Scott's voice interjected over the com. "We've drummed it into everyone's heads that they must report in _everything_ they're doing, and not to just go running off like Gordy did that time. Plus we've got those new pocket ventilator kits Brains came up with. They'd give someone a whole extra fifteen minutes; that could be the difference between life and death-"

"Scott!" John interrupted with a laugh. "You sound like a walking stock list."

"Oh shut up." Scott grumbled, although the amusement in his voice told his brothers that he was only joking. "I'm about five minutes from the danger-zone, I'll see about organizing the villagers into clearing away the debris once I'm set up."

"FAB Scott." Virgil looked down at his instruments panel. "We're still just under two hours away, I'll have the boys get the pod gear ready so we can start up the moment I get there."

Gordon jumped up out of his seat again. "We'll do that now!" Being confined to one space was seriously grating on his nerves, and he leapt on the chance to do something. Grabbing Alan's arm he pulled his brother with him. "C'mon Al' lets go."

The younger Tracy followed his brother out of the helm and through the access doorway into the pod. His eyes couldn't really pierce the gloom so soon after leaving a well lit area, but he could just make out the hulking shapes of the Excavator, Domo and Thunderbird Four. There was a crackling hum as Gordon flicked a switch and the fluorescent light strips along the wall flashed into life.

"Virge really _did_ fit everything in here." The red-head said in admiration as he looked around the crowded pod. "And if my 'Bird has a single scratch I'm gonna lynch him." He added with a cheery grin, hauling himself up onto the top of the Domo. "You go get the Excavator sorted kiddo."

Alan waved his hand in acquiescence. He didn't bother with grumbling at his brother's assumed role in command or the annoying nickname, since both were trivial matters during a mission. Doing as told (unusual, but not totally unheard of) he started the diagnostic checks on the large earth-moving machine.

It was monotonous work, but it kept him occupied in the remaining minutes that were left of the flight. Fuel levels, hydraulics, brakes, all those little things that could go wrong. Thankfully they were all flashing green at him which generally meant they were all in working order. Well, they should be considering he'd only checked them a few days before anyway. Damn protocol; the machine wasn't going to have destroyed itself in the silo now was it?

"Guys, we're about two minutes from danger zone, buckle up down there." Virgil's voice came through on the intercom.

Alan called an affirmative down his mike – hearing Gordon doing the same thing – and pulled himself into the driver's seat of the Excavator. He lifted his arms to allow the safety harness over his head, and in doing so hit the switches on the ceiling that powered the machine up. He manoeuvred the large lifting gear at the front into position to allow him to drive straight out and waited.

Soon enough there was a deep reverberating rumble beneath the caterpillar tracks which increased in volume until there was a soft 'thud'. The Excavator had a hell of a suspension, but even with that cushioning the landing for him, Alan still had to admire just how gently Virgil was able to put the behemoth down on such rocky terrain.

"Okay boys, lowering pod now."

"FAB." As light from the outside world slowly streamed into the confined area, Alan wondered what awaited them outside.

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	4. Bleak Hills

**An update, yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! **

**Sorry it's taken so very very long. I love this story, I really do, but getting this rescue out of the way proved to be a huge writing-block. Now that it's done all the real action can kick off and I'll be back up to writing this one at once ******

**A quick note aside – I never abandon stories that I've begun to publish on the web. Even if I haven't updated in a while it just means the muse has been taking it's sweet time or something is happening in my life. I'm going into my final year at uni now, so it's pedal to the metal and all systems go on the exam/dissertation front. This unfortunately means less time to write ******** But that won't stop me, just delay me. **

**So until next time all you lovely lovely people, Adieu.**

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"_Okay boys, lowering pod now." _

"_FAB." As light from the outside world slowly streamed into the confined area, Alan wondered what awaited them outside._

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The village looked in as bad a shape as Gordon had imagined as he steered the Domo up the narrow precipice to get a view of the area. He balanced the vehicle as close to the edge as it would safely go and pulled out a pair of binoculars to scan the danger zone.

Heavy rains higher up in the mountains had caused the normally tame river to spring its banks and saturate the surrounding ground, lifting the heavy earth. Gordon was aware that the mud-slip had been caused by the sudden influx of water onto parched ground, and that a series of complex mathematical equations could track its progress, but all he was really concerned with was that millions of gallons of mud were burying a village alive. And he knew first hand that it was not a pleasant experience.

The village was situated on the mountainside quite a way below the actual river, but the mud flow had ploughed over the lip of the high river channel and straight down into the inhabited area. Even as the red-head watched a large boulder was lifted from its bed and dragged into the churning swell. He tapped the little video screen on the edge of the binoculars.

"Are you getting all this Scott?" The video-feeds on the ocular devices were prone to breaking very easily, despite Brain's best efforts.

"Yeah. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

"How are we going to do this? I could try to divert the river in Four."

There was a pause as Scott tried to formulate a plan of action from the video-feed Gordon was sending him and what was infront of him down in the village.

"No." He said eventually. "The damage is already done. Alan and Virgil are pulling people out of the rubble and I'm directing the evacuation. Get the domo back down here and you can help the other two."

Gordon nodded automatically, although his brother couldn't see the movement. "FAB."

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Alan forced his way through chest high mud, struggling to keep on his feet. The safety line around his waist tightened as some unseen debris knocked him sideways and he clung to the crumbling wall of the house he was trying to get through. The building was falling apart around him from the internal and external pressure the heavy flow was forcing upon it and the infrastructure had only minutes left to its life-span.

There was another weak cry for help from the second story and he ploughed on despite the danger. A staircase loomed up infront of him, broken pieces of wood jutting out into the dark corridor. The blonde man threw a grapnel up to snag into the ground at the top of the stairs, and tested his weight on it. When assured that it would hold him, he dragged himself out of the mud and – using the sturdy rope – climbed up the gaping hole to the first floor. The sodden boards creaked under his weight and the uncomfortable thought of falling down into the unforgiving mud refused to leave his mind. Alan knew damn well that he wouldn't last like Gordon had – unlike the red-head, he was an astronaut and had the lungs of one to prove it.

"Hello? Anyone here?" Okay, they'd established that no-one in this village spoke English, but he was hoping that someone would respond to the sound of another human's voice. "Anyone at all? I don't want to have climbed all the way up here for a stuck cat!"

There was a scuffling noise, and much to Alan's delight he was answered by a definite human voice.

"Okay, hold on, I'm coming." Again, it was the tone of voice that would help more than the words themselves. The blonde eased his way through the broken timbers of a shattered wall and into the room he thought he'd heard the answer from.

There was movement at the back of the wrecked room and he looked up to see a middle-aged man crawling cautiously along the broken floor-boards towards him. Alan raised his hand up and the man nodded, pausing in his movement as the blonde surveyed the state of the floor.

The boards had been snapped and in some cases sheared right through by the force of the mud sliding past the house. As the exterior walls had been shifted, the floors had followed. However, this floor seemed to be able to hold the mans weight for long enough, so Alan threw a safety line to him – just in case – made sure it was securely fastened, then beckoned the man forwards.

They moved slowly, cautiously, back down the rope Alan had left trailing down the remnants of the stairs. After the gloomy interior of the ruined house, the sun was dazzling as the two men stepped back outside onto the pontoons that International Rescue had floated on the thick slurry to gain access to buildings. There was a scream nearby and Alan looked up to see two small children hurtle into the arms of the man he'd just rescued.

"Is that it now?" The blonde asked as he strode back to where Scott was tapping away at mobile control. The eldest Tracey looked up and smiled grimly at him, mud plastered down his face and clothes.

"Yes for this part of the village, thank God. Virge and Gords and still pulling people out round the other side." Scott wiped a tired hand across his eyes, smearing more mud over his face in the process. "We're down to bodies now though, I'm not sure if anyone is still alive."

Alan's gaze snapped up to the tangle of buildings opposite their mobile station, where he could still see the Domo at work. Scott's voice had been emotionless except for a trace of exhaustion, and he forced his own feelings back down – emotions interfered with the job at hand.

"You okay to help them with the last section?" Scott asked, watching his little brother carefully.

Alan gave a curt nod, despite the wrench in his gut when another scream of grief coloured the air.

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Jeff sat at his desk staring at the empty coffee cup as if it would magically refill itself.

"Do you want another, Mr Tracey?" Tintin asked quietly.

The Tracey patriarch shook himself out of his silent brooding and looked up at the young woman with a smile. Her worried frown eased a little as he declined the offer.

"I don't think I can cope with being any more wound up." He said, moving the mug away from his line of sight. "My blood-pressure doesn't need the antagonism." He massaged his temples with a tired sigh. "How long have they been out there?"

"Ten minutes longer than when you last asked. Getting on for nine hours now."

Jeff nodded. "These things always seem to go so slowly!" He turned to his computer screen, not expecting to se any change in the readouts that he was receiving from Mobile Control. He wasn't surprised to see that there hadn't been any updates.

"Mr Tracey?"

He looked back at the young woman. "Yes Tintin?"

She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, a worried frown marring her face. "They...They will be alright, won't they?" Her dark eyes moved to gaze at the computer screen. "I mean, it being a mud-slide and all."

The tone of her voice made Jeff banish his own misgivings and smile at her. After having had her live at the island for nearly as long as the rest of the family, he couldn't help but feel over protective of her.

"They'll be fine, Tintin. Brains made sure the gear was up to the job and it's not like they haven't done this before."

She nodded, albeit not quite convinced, but accepting for now. With lack of anything better to do she swirled the dregs of her own coffee round in the mug she held, unseeing as it slopped over the edge of the china. A hand closed upon her wrist, stopping the action before she spilt any more.

"Not a good idea to spill coffee on the carpet, my daughter." Kyrano said gently. He removed the mug from her grasp before she stained the thick-pile rug any more. "I don't think Grandma will thank you." Tintin looked around guiltily, but the old Tracey woman was staring anxiously out of the window and didn't seem to have heard.

Jeff looked around at the three other people sitting and standing morosely in the room, then through the partition into the kitchen where Brains was slumped at the table gazing blankly at a circuit-board. He sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Okay everybody. This moping isn't getting us anywhere and it's not helping the boys." He pushed the maps, empty mugs and general desk-debris out of the way so that the com-link to Thunderbird Five was reachable. Pressing the button he looked up at his second-eldest son's portrait. "John, you there?"

There was barely a second or two before John had responded and the smiling portrait morphed into his concerned face.

"Dad! Have you heard anything yet?" He asked before his father could even open his mouth to greet him.

"No, I was hoping you had."

Up in the space-station John flicked his gaze across the many computer screens he had running. All of those not showing Five's stats were covered with maps and satellite photos of the Nangarhar province or the whole country.

"There's been some German troop movement near Helmand, and an outbreak of fighting between insurgents further north. Nothing that affects the guys though." He turned to a screen showing a weather system over Afghanistan. "There's a dry spell settling quite neatly over Nangarhar too, so the village should have time recover over the next few weeks." He gave a small smile as he looked back to the webcam image of his father. "Everything looks good for now."

Jeff nodded, not exactly reassured, but knowing that is was the best he would get until he heard from the rescue team themselves.

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"Is that everyone now?" Gordon asked, slumping down on a rock besides his eldest brother.

"All of the town's people are accounted for." Scott replied quietly. He glanced out the corner of his eye towards a large pile of body-bags, before turning back to his brother.

The younger red-head was also staring at the forlorn pile. His shoulders were slumped and his usually bright eyes looked dull through a mask of mud and grim. He looked as though he'd aged about thirty years during the rescue.

"Hey." Scott said quietly, resting his hand on Gordon's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Not really." The water-loving Tracey laughed without a trace of humour in his voice. "I'm about as far from alright as I can get." He turned exhausted eyes to his older brother. "You?"

"Been better." The eldest Tracey sighed. His eyes scanned the desolate town that lay in ruins before them, pain etched harshly across his face. "That school..."

Gordon nodded wearily. "The church. Half the town had taken refuge in there. Only one entrance and that faced the direction of the mudflow."

Scott shook his head with a broken sigh. Out of the village of nearly a thousand people, they'd lost over two hundred – dead before International Rescue had even graced the scene. A further twenty odd had died after being dug out of the muck. It just wasn't _fair_! No matter how hard International Rescue tried, no matter how fast they flew or how much they cared, they could never, _never_ save everyone.

A low roar behind them made the two brothers turn round to see one of the pod vehicles coming up over the mound of sodden earth behind them. The machine was so mud splattered that it took them a moment to recognise it as the domo. A large metal trailer had been attached to it and Virgil had taken charge of ferrying the survivors out of the danger zone.

Scott stood up, raising one hand in greeting as both Virgil and Alan jumped down from the Domo. Both young men looked like they'd just fought their way through Hell and back as they slogged up to their where their brother's waited.

"Is that everything?" Alan rasped, slumping down on the rock Scott had just vacated. He raised weary blue eyes up to focus on his eldest brother as the brunette ruffled his hair.

"I think that's all we can do here." Scott replied with a dejected smile.

Virgil nodded in agreement, pushing muddy hair back out of his eyes. "I managed to speak to one of the men – he knew enough Guajarati to pass on the village's thanks and appreciation. But you're right; we've got the injured to the Red Cross, there's no-one else left up here, we can't do any more."

The young men set about dismantling the rescue equipment they had set up and trudging back down to their 'Birds with it all. Most of the larger pieces – the Domo for example – had to be carefully manoeuvred down the side of the mountain, which was slow and tedious work.

The villagers had been dropped off to the Western side of the mountainous area – which was an easier access point for Red Cross. However, the Thunderbird machines were on the other side of the ridge, which had been easier for them to get the smaller equipment up to where it was needed, but was now a slow trek back down again with everything.

It took the four men the best part of an hour to reorganise all of their vehicles and put everything back inside Thunderbird Two. It wasn't just the pod machines, but also all the safety-lies, ropes, first aid boxes and hundreds of miscellaneous pieces of rescue paraphernalia that had to be collected and accounted for before they could secure everything. This also meant that a fair amount of time was devoted to an on-the-spot inventory check. If there was one thing they were sure of – besides the lives they saved – it was that no single part of their gear could be left behind. No trace to International Rescue could be left, to protect both their identities (although that was less of an issue, since no-one was stupid enough to put their names on things) and to protect their high-tech equipment.

Scoot and Gordon hiked back up to the village one last time to do a final double check – out of habit rather than necessity. The red-head climbed up onto one of the large boulders that the mud had dislodged and surveyed the wreckage once again.

"It's incredible what a bit of mud can do." He commented thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't call thousands of gallons 'a bit'" Scott remarked. He wiped a dirty hand over his face, succeeding only in smearing the grim around a little. Gordon jumped back down next to him, grinning wearily.

"Which ever, I can't wait to throw myself in a shower. Or the pool."

The older brother raised a mud-splattered eye-brow. "You never can." He stated dryly. "Kyrano will kill you if you dive in the pool with all that mud."

Gordon shrugged lightly, climbing up a second boulder that gave a view of their craft down below. "I'll swim in the sea then. That'll get this crud off."

Scott laughed, but didn't reply when their other two brothers came up over the crest of the hill, both as covered in mud as he and Gordon were.

"All done down there." Virgil said, waving off his eldest brother's question before it was even asked. "Everything's in and we're ready to go. You two coming? Or would you rather stay here?" He shaded his eyes and looked up at where Gordon stood a meter or so above them on the rock. "What are you doing up there Gords?"

Gordon laughed down at him. "Just enjoying being taller than Scott and Alan for a change."

"Don't get too used to it, short-stuff!" Scott called up cheerfully. He frowned when Gordon saluted an affirmative and a flash of silver in the red-head's hair caught his eye. "Gords, you've got something stuck in your hair."

The aquanaut raised an eyebrow – with all the gunk covering him he was bound to have something in his hair – but brushed his hand through it anyway. The small movement shifted his position on the rock and Scott's eyes narrowed as they fixed on the glint that wasn't infact coming from Gordon's hair at all, but from behind his head.

Common sense told the eldest Tracey that there was a piece of debris lodged up in the mountain-side. However, his military senses – that had been humming at max ever since arriving in the hostile terrain jumped ahead of his brain and took over his vocal chords.

"Gordon, _duck!!!"_

It wasn't the sort of voice anybody would disobey and the red-head threw himself down to hug the rock. As he did so a flash of silver zipped past, grazing his neck in the process, and embedded itself deep in the mud at the foot of the boulder. Almost immediately following it there came the sharp crack of gun-fire from high up where the bullet had originated – the sound travelling slightly slower than the bullet itself.

Gordon, despite the shock of the sudden attack, kept his senses and had rolled the moment he was down flat so that when a burst of machine gun fire hit the boulder, he'd already slipped down the side of it. The space where he'd been standing only moments before splintered into deadly shards.

The four men pressed up against the boulder as more gun-fire came from varying directions.

"Has anyone got a weapon on them?" Scott asked, his voice gruff with fear and shock.

"Of course not!" Alan snapped. He ducked further back out of the way as a shower of rock debris hit him – corresponding to the top of the boulder being shot to pieces. "Why are they shooting at us?! We're an International Rescue for Gods sake! Even _they_ can see that!"

Scott laughed grimly. "I think that's why." There was a moment's pause in the fire and he looked out from behind the rock. "Okay, they're re-loading, back to the 'Birds!"

As one the four American's threw themselves from behind the sanctuary of the boulder towards the steep incline that led down to their craft. The gun-fire started up again the moment they were out in the open and bullets ricocheted around their feet.

Three of them managed to stumble far enough down the slope as to be out of the line of fire. One wasn't so lucky.

"_Alan_!" It was impossible to tell which of the brother's had screamed the youngest's name. Alan was thrown down as a bullet lodged itself in his shoulder and he tumbled forwards onto the steep scree slope with a cry of pain and shock.

The older three flung themselves after him as the semi-automatics began their coarse laughter behind them again.

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	5. note

Okay guys, I think I need to say something here.

I know I haven't updated for yonks and that I know that's frustrating but please have patience with me:( I'm flattered that you all like this story, but right now I have very little opportunity to write. The next chapter is in progress, and I'm not just going to leave it like this, but please understand that I can't update right now.

I'm not one of those people who can write a 10,000 word chapter in a night, and right now even if I could I wouldn't. I don't tend to disclose to much personal information, but I need to explain here what the problem is;

I am in my third and final year of a _degree_ in _biochemistry_! This is a HUGE amount of work! I haven't even had time for a Christmas, let alone write a fanfiction. Right now I have exams, a dissertation _and_ an open essay to contend with so please give me some lee-way here.

I promise hand on heart to update – I'd never not finish a story – but I can't right now. I can possibly put up something within the next month, but no promises on holding to that time limit.

I'm sorry to rant since I do love each and every one of you guys, and I'm flattered beyond belief that you even like my insane little ramblings; I just have huge amounts to do right now. Believe me, if I could be writing I would be.

So, until I update, _which I will, I PROMISE!!!!_ I bid you all a very fond farewell and hope that you don't think any worse of me for this exam-induced spaz.


	6. Guns laughter

**I can't apologise enough for the gap between updates. I struggle to write fast – I can't hold my attention to the task for very long – so tend to write in short bursts instead. There are often rather considerable gaps between these short bursts as real life gets in the way.**

**That being said, another chapter is finished and I'm starting the next one. Many many thanks to Manu once again; my life would be dark without you darling!**

**Enjoy and review as you see fit :D**

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"_Alan!" It was impossible to tell which of the brothers had screamed the youngest's name. Alan was thrown down as a bullet lodged itself in his shoulder and he tumbled forward onto the steep scree slope with a cry of pain and shock. _

_The older three flung themselves after him as the semi-automatics began their coarse laughter behind them again._

_MWMWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM_

There were no words to describe the fear that pumped through Gordon's veins as he hurled himself down the mountainside. Fear for himself and absolute terror for his brothers as bullets skittered off the rocks around them.

The tundra came up to meet him as he hit the level ground at the base of the slope and fell painfully as the loose rocks caught at his ankles and sent him tumbling. He rolled with it, letting the momentum carry him back onto his feet and now clutching at his left elbow – pain shooting through the joint with a ferocity only quelled by the fear he felt.

Scott saw his red-haired brother tumble, but the speed at which Gordon was back on his feet meant that at least the aquanaut didn't appear to be too badly hurt. The eldest Tracy veered over to where Alan was shakily trying to get to his feet, his face creased with pain.

"Alan!"

"I'm okay." The blonde clutched at his wounded shoulder as he regained his footing and began to follow after Virgil and Gordon. Pretty sure that he was far from okay, but unable to do anything about it Scott kept pace with him, quickly scanning the amount of blood covering Alan's shoulder. His basic first-aid training told him that despite how bad the wound looked, the youngest wasn't losing too much blood – which was a small relief.

Despite how tired they were from the rescue, fear lent them the necessary speed and the four men flew across the rocky ground as bullets chased along behind them. Scott felt something pierce the back of his calf but the adrenaline pumping headily through his veins blocked the pain signals that should have been triggered.

Ahead he could see that Alan had caught up with Gordon, and Virgil was slightly behind, looking uninjured and therefore probably in the best shape out of all of them so far. Scott's military training was in full force as he wove from side to side so that he never presented a consistent target but it appeared that they had managed to move out of the range of whoever was in the mountains behind them, and his brain was already calculating that this meant the guns being used were something along the lines of a Kalashnikov or S18. Not that this knowledge improved the situation, it just meant he was a little more aware of what they were facing.

Then there was a screaming whistle of a much larger projectile over his head that he instantly recognised.

"Grenade, _down_!" He was already hugging the stony ground, and saw Virgil drop as he shouted the warning. The explosion kicked up rock shards and shrapnel that made Scott press himself as flat as possible to avoid the splinters that erupted from the fragmentation device. The blast itself was thankfully just far enough ahead of him that the shockwave didn't hit him or Virgil – if it had done so it could easily have liquefied their internal organs.

Much sooner than his dazed mind wanted to accept, Scott pushed himself to his feet again, well aware that if the attackers had a grenade launcher they wouldn't stop after only one shot. Looking ahead he could see that they were only five hundred yards or so from their machines – and safety. All they needed to do was get there and then they could get the hell out of the place!

Closer to the machines and out of Scott's line of sight Gordon was also struggling to his feet. He hadn't heard the warning so had been unprepared for the bomb blast that had thrown both himself and Alan through the air. He hugged his injured elbow close to his body, doing a mental checklist of what else had been hurt. His back felt like it was on fire, and the sticky way his uniform now clung to him made it a pretty good guess that he'd been hit by shrapnel. He was about to try to expand on this guess when his gaze fell on his younger brother.

"_Alan_!" The blonde was still down, the rocky ground beneath him turning a dull rusty colour. Gordon threw himself over his brother's unconscious body as another grenade whizzed over his head and went off nearby, showering them both with rock and dust. In those few seconds all he could really see was the jagged piece of metal that protruded from Alan's shoulder and the bloody cut on the back of his skull that probably attested to his lack of consciousness.

The moment the blast cleared Gordon was staggering back to his feet, dragging Alan's limp form up over his shoulders in a fire-man's lift – not exactly ideal given the blonde's current condition, but there was no other choice.

Behind him Virgil was also scrambling to his feet, blood now dripping down one side of his face from where a piece of rock had grazed his forehead. The view ahead of him was hazy with the dust kicked up by the two explosions, but through it he could see the dull gleam of metal that denoted where their craft lay.

Virgil pulled himself up and followed as Scott disappeared into the dust cloud. Blood was spilling into his left eye from his head wound, blinding his sight and killing his depth perception. He heard the second grenade go off somewhere ahead of him but the blast radius didn't reach him with enough force to affect his speed as he charged forward – following the distant gleam of their machines.

Moments later he heard the distinctive whine over his head again and dropped to hug the ground for a second time – curling up into a ball and covering his head as the grenade reached the end of its fuse and went off. This time there was little shrapnel but the detonation itself shook the ground like an earthquake.

Virgil was thrown across the rocky earth as the concussion grenade's blast ripped through him. He lay still – deafened and blinded – tasting blood as it filled his mouth with its coppery tang. More of the crimson liquid dripped down his chin from where the delicate capillaries in his nose had been burst open by the force of the explosion.

Scott, having now made it to Thunderbird One was shaken off his feet by the concussion blast, and his large ship listed on her three tripod legs as the ground quaked. He caught hold of the bottom rung of the ladder that led up to the cockpit, hauled himself upright, and scrambled up to the entrance hatch. The door opened with a groan, rather than the usual –and almost soundless – hiss, and the pilot worried momentarily that the blasts had damaged his Bird. There wasn't time to continue his concern, however, as a closer blast rocked his ship again and threatened to throw him back to the ground – which was now about ten feet below him.

Scrambling into the cockpit he let the hatch groan to a close behind him and hit the radio call switch as he sank into the pilots chair.

"Scott? Are you about to leave? I'll-"

"John, we're under attack! Tell Dad that we'll need the sick-bay ready. I'll call again when we're all air-borne." He ended the call without giving his brother chance to reply and focused on starting his ship's engines. The machinery groaned, but fired up accordingly if grudgingly – something that would no doubt need fixing once they were safely away from this hell-hole. In the second or two that the engines took, the pilot gave his wounded leg a cursory glance. Blood was still oozing from the bullet-hole, but not with any great speed and he determined that it was safe enough to leave at least until airborne.

The com suddenly sputtered to life again and Gordon's frantic tones came through.

"Scott, we're in Two and ready to go! Alan's in a bad way so this is going to be one fast get away!"

The eldest brother bit down the gut-wrenching knot of worry he felt on hearing his youngest sibling was badly injured and tried to focus on his duties as team leader. "Stabilize him as best you can. Is Virgil hurt?"

"What? Virgil's with you!"

And the bottom seemed to fall out of the world to show only heart-stopping darkness.

"He's not with me."

Silence across the coms, broken only by the sputtering of gun-fire, now muted and made distant by the sudden wash of horror as the occupants of both ships stared out of the windows.

"Then where is he?" Gordon's voice was shaking, fear and utter panic filling it. "I thought he was with you! He was supposed to be with you!"

"Calm down!" Scott was hurriedly fighting out of his safety harness. "I'm going to look for him, you get Alan sorted!" He finally untangled himself from the straps and reached for the handle of the cockpit door...

There was an explosion. Louder than any he'd heard yet, appearing to be directly beneath him.

Thunderbird One rocked, throwing her pilot back into his chair. The noise had left his ears ringing, but he still heard the crunching of metal as his ship listed to one side then began to fall. Warning lights blinking at him from every angle, Scott pulled the lever for the thrusters hard. The rockets fired just as the ship's port-wing leg crumpled underneath her and she rose from the ground at an awkward angle, the mangled landing gear dangling like an amputated limb.

"Scott! Are you okay?" Gordon sounded frantic over the radio.

"I'm fine." His voice betrayed more fear than he'd have liked and his hands on the controls were trembling. "Just a bit of a shock. One's been crippled though. What's it look like from outside? All I'm getting are warning lights."

"Her port leg's been pulverised." Gordon's own voice was shaking as he replied. "Can you land her like that?"

"Not on this terrain. God-_damnit!_" Scott punched the dash-board furiously. He couldn't execute a vertical landing on rocks – his bird wouldn't be able to take off again and most likely would blow up her own engines in the thrusters' back-lash. "Can you see Virgil anywhere?"

Gordon peered out of Two's cracked wind-shield, scanning the sandy area for the familiar blue of an International Rescue uniform. "Not yet." He jabbed the com for Thunderbird Five. "John, Virgil's missing, can you get a fix on him?"

Thousands of miles above them in the space station John didn't waste time asking questions. Flipping the com channel to 'open' so that Scott could hear him too he quickly typed the command into Five's console that should activate the GPS trackers fixed into their clothes. Homing in on the Nangarhar Province, he told the program to locate his brothers.

Nothing.

Frowning he checked the command then resent it.

Nothing.

"_John! Anytime now would be nice!"_

"Just another second." Extending the search he asked for the GPS on the machines.

Absolute zero.

"What the..." Switching to the next consol he swiftly ran the program that he'd had prepared since the mission began – ready for this sort of eventuality. Hacking was a skill that came slightly too easily to him and he'd had no trouble jumping a snooping virus into a handy passing satellite that now was sending him a neat video feed of the area he wanted. The live footage appeared on his screen – showing Thunderbird One airborne and Two amid a cloud of dust on the ground that suggested it was in the process of taking off.

"Gordon? I've got a visual on the 'Bird's, but I can't get any GPS readings – from you guys or the craft."

"_What? Why not?"_

"_Concussion grenade, it must have knocked them out." _ Scott chipped in. _"Can you see Virgil on the visual?"_

John zoomed in as far as the picture would allow before losing focus. "I can't see him! Where was he last?"

"_I don't know! One moment he was behind me, the next he's gone!"_ The panic in Scott's voice was very audible, and caused John's own fear to rise as he continued to study the grainy video.

"I can't see him anywhere! Can you search from the ground?"

"_There hasn't been a break in the fire."_ Scott replied. _"I've got a Kevlar jacket in One, but I can't land – my port leg has been crippled."_

Swallowing, John realised that his brothers – even Scott – were waiting for him to tell them what to do. There wasn't time to call Jeff and inform him of the situation, he was on his own here.

"Okay. Gordon, can you or Alan get out and look for him?"

"_Negative. Alan's injured and losing blood rapidly. Gunshot wound and multiple shrapnel hits." _

The space monitor swore under his breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment to try and get a hold of himself. "Okay." His voice held a new tone of steely reserve to it. "Gordon, get Alan home. Scott, hover over the area – use your guns if you can be sure not to hit Virge – and search for him."

"_Are you telling me to fire on other people, John?"_ Scott sounded shocked – out of all of them, John was the least likely to condone violence.

"Shoot to dissuade, not kill. Just find Virgil!" And I've got to tell Dad that you're in the middle of a mêlée, he mentally put in. "Are you or Gordon injured?"

"_I've got a bullet in my leg, but it's plugging the wound so it isn't bleeding much and I'm too high on adrenaline to feel it." _Scott replied – obviously thinking that he was being reassuring.

"_I've got a load of shrapnel in my back – but I don't think it's bad."_ Gordon added. "_My arm's not too good though, probably fractured." _

John was glad that his brother's couldn't see his facial expression of pure and utter panic as he forced his voice to remain steady. He, at least, needed to stay calm and deal with the situation.

"Okay guys. Gordon, get going. Scott, surveillance of the area. I'll stay on the satellite feed and contact Dad." Then as an after thought added; "And keep the coms on."

"_FAB._" On the ground, Gordon had already set Two through the take off procedure. He glanced over his shoulder to check on Alan and then punched in the commands to lift off. Next to him his brother lay securely strapped into one of the passenger seats that had been extended out so that he was lying down. It wasn't ideal, but Gordon wanted him where he could see him, not right back in the small med-bay. At least he was stable...

Another grenade went off, shaking the mammoth ship and causing it to lurch as it took off.

"Gordon! Are you two alright?" Scott sounded frantic on the radio.

"Yeah, it just missed us." The huge green took to the skies and ponderously turned around. Gordon glanced out the windshield and could hardly believe how much the desolate landscape they'd arrived at had changed. Dust clouds were being kicked up by the stuttering bullets and a cloud of grit and rocks was still settling from the last grenade. A hundred meters or so away, Thunderbird One was returning fire – but only in staggered bursts as Scott scanned the ground intently for the blue uniform of his brother.

And all he could see was blasted rock. There was no sign of Virgil.

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Jeff slumped back in his chair, ashen faced as John updated him.

Two hours had crawled past and there still hadn't been any news. Gordon was currently somewhere over the mid-Atlantic and Scott was doggedly staying put over the danger zone – searching for their missing brother.

The Tracy patriarch had been following the satellite footage as well as John and so far had come up with nothing. The middle Tracy boy had simply vanished into thin air and they were powerless to find him. Brains was working on trying to find a way to get the GPS working again – but fried hardware is fried hardware and there was very little he could do.

"God _Damnit_!" Jeff slammed his hand down on the flat video display screen that was embedded in his desk and the current satellite feed it was showing flickered wildly. "Where _is_ he? He can't have just melted into the rock!"

The fear was positively solid in the air of the Tracy residence. It is human instinct to band together when terror is the main emotion, and the small group on the island had done just that. Congregated in the main living room, they were each engrossed in their own separate tasks, whilst having the comfort of knowing that they weren't alone. Tintin shared the main table with Brains as they tried method after method to get the GPS Virgil carried to give off a signal. The link to Thunderbird Five had not been turned off since John had first informed them that the middle Tracy was missing and Kyrano was busy relaying everything to Lady Penelope. Even Grandma was sitting off to one side and talking in rapid French on a radio to one of the garrisons nearest the area – having already determined that the small British base had too little firepower at their disposal to help in the search.

Up in the space station John stared feverishly at the multiple screens he had on – the massive server capability of Thunderbird Five set to monitoring every radio and satellite feed from the Nangarhar area. Radio signals, mobile telephones, landlines, television broadcasts, internet, if it was electronically communicated information then he was able to pick it up. This was usually the case for the whole world – but this time he'd focused the entire searching power onto a single province, sparing the bare minimum to monitor the usual channels in case another call came in.

In the living room Tintin stretched out her stiff back before leaning back in over the GPS tracker she was working on. Manipulating single wires around the complex circuit board was an engrossing task that was made all the more difficult by the way her hands shook. No matter how many times she attempted the 'deep breath, calm down' routine she was deathly afraid of one of the boys calling in with The News. The boys were like brothers to her, and the thought of losing one of them was unimaginable.

"_Merci beaucoup lieutenant_." Grandma replaced the radio in its stand and shook her head when they looked at her expectantly. "They can't get there for at least two days – the terrain is too difficult. They can send on a helicopter to land in the same area the boys did, since it escaped the river flooding, but they won't send it in during a fire-fight."

"_Why not?"_ Gordon's indignant voice sounded tinny as it was heard through John's com in Thunderbird Five. _"They've got a Eurocopter Tiger out there, that's got more than enough fire-power! It's got air-to-air missiles for crying out loud!"_

"Enough Gordon." Jeff's tone adequately displayed just how short his temper was getting.

"Sorry Father. Just wanted to let you know ETA is roughly thirty minutes." The red-head sounded contrite. Being the hot-head of the family and under such stress it was easy to understand why he'd flipped out at a refusal to help.

Realising this the head of the Tracy family sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand as he switched Gordon's com-link so that it came in direct to his desk, rather than routing through the space-station. "How are you and Alan doing?" He asked, with an admirable attempt at keeping the worry from his voice.

"Alan's not as bad as I'd first thought." Gordon's answer caused a sigh of relief to run through the room. "He briefly regained consciousness, and was coherent although groggy. He'll probably be alright in a week or so."

"That's good to know. What about your injuries?"

"Hardly know they're there." Gordon's voice was full of forced cheerfulness as he replied breezily.

"Gordon..."

"Seriously Dad, I'm fine. Just can't wait to get home."

Jeff didn't like the answer, but knew damn well he wouldn't be able to force a better one out of his second youngest. "Okay. Just be careful and fly safe."

"Sure thing. We're approaching the east coast of the USA so I'll be tracked for a while anyway." There was unusual relief in Gordon's voice as he said that. Normally he, and the others, hated their craft being followed as they flew over various different airspaces – although it was necessary so that other aircraft could be diverted and there wouldn't be any collisions. However, this time he was worried enough about his brothers to welcome the thought of the country beneath his ship keeping the skies clear for him.

There was a soft click from the com on his desk as Gordon closed the link and Jeff sat back with a heavy sigh.

"Tea, Mr Tracy?" Kyrano materialised infront of him with a steaming cup and Jeff managed to crack a small smile.

"Thanks Kyrano, although I must say that coffee sounds slightly more appropriate right now."

The Malaysian man looked at him sternly. "You don't need to be any more stressed than you already are, Mr Tracy. This was a suggestion from Lady Penelope, although she did initially say that chamomile would be best for you."

Jeff shuddered and accepted the cup. "Trust the English to suggest tea in a crisis." _At least it isn't that foul herbal stuff,_ his mind added. Leaning back in a chair – the stiff muscles in his back protesting – he looked up at the video link to Thunderbird Five. "Anything, John?"

The blonde was listlessly swivelling his chair from side to side, staring at the banks of monitors. His father's voice made him look up and try to sit up straighter.

"I've begun to get calls about earthquakes in South America. Nothing serious as yet, but something to keep an eye on." He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the Middle East scans. "Still nothing useful on Virge. How are Brains and Tintin doing with the GPS?"

"Not good. You know what those things can be like when they're fried."

John nodded absently, the tracking dots were damn useful, but fairly fragile when it came to extreme temperatures, radiation or – as they'd now found out – concussion blasts. There was little chance of the one Virgil wore being of any use. He flicked the satellite feed between two monitors, more for something to do than out of any actual necessity. As useless as he usually felt when his brothers were out on a rescue, he felt infinitely worse knowing that it was one of his brothers who may now be in trouble.

A shrill electronic beep drew him from his melancholy and he looked up to see one of the computer screens informing him that there was another incoming signal from the Nangarhar province. Opening the intercepted file his eyes idly followed the grainy video feed.

A few seconds passed before his brain suddenly processed what it was actually seeing.

Down on Tracy Island Jeff was still waiting expectantly for John to continue the conversation, so was horrified when he saw the colour suddenly leech from his son's face.

"John? John! What is it?"

The space monitor didn't answer, or rather couldn't answer. He stared blindly at the computer screen, shaking his head in horrified disbelief.

"No. God no no _NO!"_

The scream echoed through the satellite and, as the video feed finally patched through to the Island, was repeated over by the occupants in the living room.

"_No! __Virgil__!"_

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**And...I think I'll leave it there for now. BWA HA HA HAAAA!**

**I do like cliff hangers, although I think here it is going to be fairly obvious what has happened to our dear Thunderbird Two pilot. With that in mind I'm going to issue an early warning about the next few chapters. They aren't going to be pretty. Virgil is not going to have a good time of it in this story and therefore I wouldn't recommend continuing to read if you are squeamish.**

**Hopefully I'll get my lazy ass in gear and finish the next chapter quicker too :D**

**So until next time my friends, Adieu. **


	7. The road to hell

**Many many thanks to my darling Manu, who beta-read this despite having dengue fever. Hugs darling! Also, a hug for Squid, who never got round to reading the draft **

**And thank you to everyone who's still sticking with this. Here's the next chapter; and things are hotting up!**

"_John? John! What is it?"_

_The space monitor didn't answer, or rather couldn't answer. He stared blindly at the computer screen, shaking his head in horrified disbelief._

"_No. God no no _NO_!"_

_The scream echoed through the satellite and, as the video feed finally patched through to the Island, was repeated over by the occupants in the living room._

"_No! _ Virgil_!"_

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It seemed like a bad dream, a nightmare from the wracked depths of Lewis Carrol's twisted imaginings of a dark Wonderland.

Barely conscious and blinded by pain, Virgil wondered if he was imagining the voices – muted by the ringing in his ears – and if the rough hands hauling him up from the safe embrace of the earth were merely the grasping claws of delirium. With the thumping agony in his head drowning out conscious thought it was hard to determine whether the images around him were truth or twisted fantasy. He thought he'd thrown up, and maybe he had, or maybe the sour taste in his mouth was blood from that infuriating head wound.

There was a confusion of pictures around him - people maybe – that his blurred vision couldn't focus on. One thing he was sure of though was the suffocating blackness that suddenly blocked out everything, so that he struggled to breathe in the fetid darkness. And one thing that he was doubly sure of was that it went black _before_ he lost consciousness.

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The video was grainy and pixelated, filmed on an old VHS recorder by someone with a shaking hand, a sick representation of a home movie. The scene it portrayed was magnified across the large screen TV in the Tracy sitting room, the stunned occupants watching in silence – too horrified to speak.

It showed a small room, dingy and grim with the single light source – a halogen lamp – being badly placed so that the video was saturated and misted. Grey walls – crudely cut igneous rock perhaps, judging from the roughness, or otherwise badly poured concrete – were in evidence in the background, but were nearly entirely covered up by a large tarpaulin boasting an esoteric symbol in garish colours. The lack of video quality did little to help distinguish further details.

Details, however, were the last things on people's minds.

The foreground was crowded – at least five men, possibly more off to the sides, the video quality didn't allow enough resolution to pin-point dark cloth from shadows. They had done little to hide the Benelli's and Kalashnikov's strapped to their backs and the one that the amateur camera man appeared to be trying to focus on – albeit badly – was carrying a Desert Eagle. The weapons drew the eye, but the apparel was also indicative of who these people could be. Heavy duty desert gear – perhaps old or stolen army fatigues – overlaid with scraps of cloth bearing the same symbol as the flag on the wall. And, of course, thick black scarves wrapped up around their faces to avoid identification – not that that would have been possible anyway, given the level of pixellation.

However, all of this paled into significance when faced with the single figure, centre-stage as it were.

Seated on what appeared to be a stack of wooden pallets, held firmly in place by the shoulders was the figure of a man. Hunched over – possibly in pain or possibly unconscious, it was impossible to tell – his features were entirely obscured by the hessian bag pulled down over his head. Features were hardly needed though to determine who it was.

Mud-covered and streaked with red that could only be attributed to blood, the International Rescue uniform was still a distinctive sight.

_Virgil_.

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_Stop shouting._

_Please, it's hurting my head._

_Why are you shouting?_

_I can't breathe._

_It's so dark, what's going on?_

_Oh God, what the hell is happening?_

_I can't breathe…_

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The man with the Desert Eagle was gesturing at the prone IR operative with the muzzle of the weapon, shouting angrily at the camera. With a shaking hand John reached out and hit a single key on his key-board that started the automatic translation program, quickly providing subtitles to both his monitor and the one his family were watching. Technically he personally didn't need the translation, since the man was speaking in Dari which he knew fairly well. However, given the circumstances his brain was hardly able to process English, let alone trying to translate a language so different from his own.

"_You think that you're so superior to us, Western world! You think that because our backgrounds were not as privileged as your own that it makes us stupid, weak. Well, I can assure you that we are neither!" _He cuffed Virgil around the head with the barrel of the gun, although the effect this had was still hidden by the sack obscuring the young man's features. "_See here! We have one of your own, one of those that are almost given demi-God status for their altruism and courage! How much does the world owe International Rescue? How much would the world be willing to sacrifice to save one who has risked his own life so many times?" _The words were sharp and caustic, but the tone of voice was what carried the true passion. So much anger and hate. Screaming at perceived injustice done by people who did not immediately follow the man's own ideals and beliefs. No room for compromise. No room for accepting differing points of view. A highly dangerous individual who would give no quarter to those he believed did not fit into his idea of a perfect world.

"_You know what is coming now; enough of your soldiers and aid workers have been in this position and how often do you care enough to try and get them back? Do you even know or care how many people we have tortured and killed because you don't think they're worth the demands we make? Well this time things are going to be different!_

_International Rescue. The Thunderbirds. The great Gods of the sky that fly down to the rescue at a moment's notice. Now who will fly to their rescue?" _

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Virgil was groggy and in more pain than he could ever remember feeling before. However, both were dull background annoyances when faced with the abject terror coursing through his body.

He was used to feeling fear to some extent. That little thrill of horror each and every rescue when one of his brothers unfailingly succeeded in running back into the burning building or vanished from sight beyond the cliff edge. The sensation of butterflies when he came in to land and could see the entire rescue zone for the first time. Even the adrenaline fuelled anxiety that he enjoyed when skydiving.

Fear was a part of life and – as much as his brothers seemed to think that he was immune to the emotion – he was no stranger to feeling afraid.

This time was different though.

Panic. Sheer, bloody panic that froze his limbs and threatened to choke him.

He had no idea where he was or what in hell was going on. Why was he tied up? Who were the other people he could hear around him? Why was he in so much pain with no one trying to help? And why oh why could he not see anything even though his eyes were wide open?

What had happened?

Trying his damnedest to bite down on the feelings of abject terror he tried to concentrate and see what he could deduce about his surroundings.

There were hands gripping his shoulders – tight enough to bruise – and that didn't bode well as a starting point. His back felt like it was on fire and the word 'shrapnel' entered his mind, sparking off the memory of the fragmentation grenades going off around him. The pounding in his head – which he groggily assumed to be a combination of the concussion grenade and some sort of physical blow – made it difficult to discern more.

A voice next to him made him start, and woke his overwhelmed brain up slightly, not that that was a particularly welcome thing. The man was shouting angrily, although Virgil couldn't tell if the words were directed at himself, or some other in the vicinity – for God's sake why was he still unable to see? He knew that his eyes were open, had the head injury affected him even worse than just what felt like a bad concussion? The horror of the idea of being blind was muted under the cacophony of fear that he was otherwise feeling.

Unable to understand what the unknown person next to him was shouting he turned his attention instead to the bonds on his arms, although that was a hopeless endeavour – they were so tight as to be cutting off his circulation.

A sudden harsh blow to the side of his skull caught him unawares – throwing his head back and splitting his temple open. Pain – or at least, _more_ pain – exploded behind his eyes and for a moment his already hazy mind went entirely blank. Then there was the voice again, filtering back through the mists of concussion and terror, angry and harsh in Virgil's ears.

Light made a sudden unwelcome appearance less than a minute later when the hood – which he now realised was the source of his 'blindness' was ripped from his head.

_What? Where?_

Logic and familiarity told him that the light was dim – only a small halogen bulb, but his suddenly bleached rod cells were saying otherwise and a grimace of pain screwed up the young man's face as he tried to let his eyes adjust.

_Small room – stone walls; cave? _

His gaze darted to the side as the man began shouting again but all other details were lost as he focused on the gun.

_Oh God no…_

He tried to look to the other side – to see who the other people were – but a hand gripped his hair painfully, forcing him to look straight ahead, straight into the –

_Camera!_

And then the panic and feelings of complete and absolute horror overwhelmed Virgil Tracey as the situation suddenly sunk in.

These men were part of one of the many insurgent groups of Afghanistan, and he was now their hostage.

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"_We demand the release of our brothers in arms from your jails. We demand the removal of your troops from our land. It is the will of God that this be done! Too long have you sullied our country and ignored our wishes; now we will take back what is ours by divine right!" _The man's hand twisted tightly in Virgil's hair, forcing the captive to look straight into the camera. _"And if you do not comply you will have to watch him burn." _To emphasise the point he rammed the barrel of his Desert Eagle against the prisoner's throat. _"We give you four months. Four months for every Westerner to remove themselves from our land and for you to send back the freedom fighters who have been imprisoned. Four months, or the world will watch on as we torture and kill a member of International Rescue before your very eyes! He. Will. __Burn__!"_

The video stopped and the screen returned to gentle static.

For a few seconds John merely stared blankly at it as his brain tried to comprehend the enormity of what had happened, of what he'd just seen. Virgil…..He….Oh God they…Virgil…

His stomach twisted violently and he pulled away from the bank of computers as the wave of nausea hit him hard. Grabbing the waste-paper bin that sat on the desk to his immediate right he was unable to hold back from vomiting as his mind grappled with the sheer horror of the situation.

_No! Nononononononononononono!_

This couldn't be happening! It…There was no way….NO! It could _not_ be happening! Not to his little brother!

The last image seen before the video died was swimming in front of his eyes, a mocking still-frame of Virgil covered in blood with a gun pressed up under his chin. The picture had been too pixellated to really catch details, but the look of fear across the middle Tracey's face had been apparent enough without further resolution….

John curled over the bin again.

Why was this happening? Surely it wasn't real! Just a bad dream, a sordid nightmare of epic proportions!

This couldn't be happening!

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Gordon clutched his broken arm tighter to his chest and wiped his free hand across his eyes in exhaustion. They were only another fifteen minutes from the island and it was getting increasingly more difficult for him to concentrate. He hadn't heard anything from home for a considerable amount of time, and could only assume that there had been no further developments. Next to him Alan was resting more comfortably; still deeply asleep, but a flush of colour creeping back into his cheeks and a quick glance at the bandage wrapped hastily around the younger man's head told Gordon that the head wound was no longer bleeding.

That was good, at least.

Blinking furiously he tried to clear the blurriness from his vision, doggedly staring out of the panoramic windscreen. A pin-point in the distance heralded their arrival in the island's air-zone and a wash of relief momentarily blocked the pain still burning across his back and down his shattered elbow. He hadn't had time to properly check the damage he'd sustained, and all he could really tell was that there was an uncomfortably large amount of shrapnel embedded in his back and shoulders. He'd been unbelievably lucky that it hadn't caught him in the head. On that thought; they'd been lucky that Alan's head wound hadn't split his skull open, and had instead just caused a deep gash.

Shaking the depressive thoughts from his mind he quickly went through the protocol to ready the huge craft for landing. The distinct lack of his older brother hovering over his shoulder whilst he did so made Virgil's absence all the more acute, and Gordon sent a quick prayer up to whomever was listening that the middle Tracey was alright. He tried the radio again, but the island weren't answering and Scott just sent the same 'busy' signal he'd been sending each and every time Gordon had tried to contact him.

It was worrying, and the prickling feeling he had that something was wrong was only intensifying.

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Fear.

Pain.

Fear and pain.

They were the only things Virgil was now aware of.

The hood was back on his head and rough hands were pushing him in unintelligible directions; it was all he could do to keep on his feet. He'd wet himself – although the part of his brain still functioning reassured him that this was part of the flight-or-fight mechanism. It really didn't help to know that a full rush of adrenaline caused constriction of muscles.

The ground was uneven and sloped sharply down-hill, so that he stumbled over the unseen rocks and gravel underfoot. At one point he tripped fully, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall as he hit the wall of the tunnel. There was no compassion from his captors as he was hauled back upright and one of the men behind him shouted something, slapping him roughly around the head.

There was no point in trying to talk back or reason, chances were they wouldn't understand him and/or the English language – combined with his American accent – wouldn't go over too well. Neither was struggling an option; considering the amount of pain he was in and the awkward angle his arms were tied at, it was all he could do to remain on his feet.

The sudden harsh grate of metal on stone caused Virgil to flinch, even more so at the recognisable sound of a switch-blade being flicked out. A sudden rush of hot agony down his arms alerted him to his bonds being suddenly cut, but before he could react a booted foot caught him hard in the small of the back. He was unable to cushion his fall – his arms were uncooperative and weak from the extended restricted blood flow – and the breath was fully knocked out of him. Winded and shocked he barely registered the grating sound again, this time behind him, but his over-loaded mind had enough sense to suggest that it might be a door.

Arms had been freed, the footsteps were retreating and there had been the sound of a closing door behind him; all pointed to him now having been securely locked up.

Virgil carefully pushed himself to his hands and knees – limbs shaking with both the terror and the pain – and sat back on his heels. Pulling the hood off he realised that it did little to improve his visibility. Where-ever he was being held was utterly dark.

"Oh God…" Heedless of his injuries he curled over his knees, hands gripping his hair as the hopelessness and horror of the situation began to take hold. This was a scenario that had never even occurred t him before, and now he found himself deep within the nightmare. He hadn't cried in years, but now tears of despair were fighting their way out regardless and he found that he didn't care.

It was cold too. It was reasonable to assume that he was now deep underground somewhere and it was cold within the dark cell. He was still in his uniform, but anything useful – med-packs, gun, emergency rations, satellite phone, watch – had all been taken from him, presumably when he'd been unconscious.

It seemed hopeless.

A sudden scuffling noise made the young man jump and straighten up, although he couldn't see anything in the darkness. It occurred to him that he was very probably sharing his new accommodation with rats, and the thought made him grimace. Then – much to his shock – out of the darkness a tentative voice spoke.

"Hello?"

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Scott gazed furiously out across the blasted rock and sand, his eyes aching from squinting out at the now-dark terrain. The militia had given up firing on him and had vanished into whatever bolt-holes they'd appeared from, which meant that he was blessedly alone for the time being. Thunderbird One had suffered more damage under the assault, beyond having her leg blown off, and glancing out of the window Scott could see the thick glutinous streaks of oil smearing the ships port wing. The tough metal plating was riddled with bullet holes, but had withstood the test admirably enough so that only a few of the internal workings had been damaged.

He should have considered himself lucky.

He didn't.

Hours had gone past and there was absolutely no sign of his brother. Unable to land, Scott had tried everything else under power; the loudspeaker, flares, heat sensor, fog-lights, he'd even gone as far as to create a 3D virtual map of the immediate area to computationally search for the most likely places a person could lie and not be seen. Nothing.

He refused to think of what the reality might be. That it was highly likely Virgil had been shot down and at this very moment was lying somewhere bleeding out, or worse, already gone.

A sudden beeping caught Scott's attention and he pressed the radio on.

"Still no sign, I'll report back in another hour."

"_No Scott, you need to come home." _

The voice gave Scott pause; his father sounded dreadful.

It hadn't been a request of 'stop looking and come back'; the tone of voice had been off slightly. Rather the simple sentence had been stated as if they needed Scott back at base to tell him some-thing. If anything it was eerily reminiscent of when Lucy had died; that same '_Scott, I need to talk to you…_'.

"Dad, just give me another hour or so!"

"_No, you need to come back-"_

"I'm not leaving him out here! I can find him!"

There was a shaking sigh on the other end of the line. _"No Scott, you can't."_

His hand froze on the throttle. "Dad?"

"_You need to come back home Scott. You won't be able to find him."_

"Dad…what's happened?"

"_Just come home. That's an order Scott. Trust me when I say that I am one hundred percent positive that you won't find him."_

The young man stared at the radio as it clicked off, still in the middle of formulating a reply. The thought of just leaving with his brother still lost was unthinkable, yet there had been a quality to his father's voice that told him something was _very_ wrong – more so than it was already. His leg throbbed in agreement; the bullet now nestled deep within the muscle of his calf. His emergency med-pack lay half open on the control console in front of him, one of the vials of local anaesthetic now empty and a used needle hastily wrapped back up in its own packaging. That seemed to be doing the trick for now – it was keeping him going at any rate – but despite the lump of metal plugging the wound he had still lost enough blood to give him a dehydration headache. And he wasn't the only one not at his best.

A bank of lights on the console flashed into life, signalling that he was down to emergency reserves of fuel. The computer had calculated how long it had taken him to get to the danger zone, so the tank had enough in it to get him home again, but that was it. There was no room for error or continuing the search.

It was with a heavy heart that Scott made one final circle of the area, before pointing One's nose towards home.

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Virgil scrambled backwards until his back hit the wall and a flare of pain shot up from his wounded shoulders.

"Who?" His voice was a hoarse croak, almost unrecognisable to his own ears. However, at the sound of the tiny word there was a gasp from elsewhere in the darkness.

"Hello? Do you speak English?"

"…yes?"

There was a strangled laugh. "Oh God! You have no idea how long it's been since I heard another English voice!"

"Who..." Virgil cleared his throat and tried again. "Who are you?"

"Hostage. Same as you."

"Hostage?"

"You didn't think they captured you for fun did you? What company are you from?"

The question didn't make sense to Virgil's overloaded brain. "Company?"

"Section then. I'm Lance Corporal Robbie Drayton of the Royal Fusiliers, Yorkshire regiment."

The Tracey realised what his unseen companion was asking, and on top of all the other worries and fears that were warring to take over he suddenly realised that he had a duty to protect International Rescue. However, in this situation and with all the pain and terror he was feeling the thought of a friend he could speak with was more of a relief than he could possibly imagine. Quickly his mind sifted through the options of things he could tell his companion, and one answer made sense as well as having a sliver of truth to it.

"My name is Virgil, Virgil Tracey." He said hoarsely. "There was a mud slide near here and I was part of the relief effort."

"You're a relief worker?" The disappointment in Robbie's voice was palpable and he sighed. "Damn. They won't bother with relief workers!"

The statement didn't make sense to Virgil. "Who won't bother?"

"The UN. They don't bother with hostage demands unless it's someone of importance who has been taken, and even then they're rarely successful. Relief workers, journalists, travellers, common soldiers, we are all classed as collateral."

The thought hit like an icy wave of water . "You mean….no-one's coming for us?"

There was a quiet sigh. "I've been here for two years, and no-one's come for me."

Virgil let his head thump back against the stone wall as the magnitude of the situation slowly made itself known. Sure, he was pretty certain his brothers would try to move mountains to find him, but they were going to be constrained by the air-space sanctions laid down by NATO and the UN. He shivered as the tiny spark of hope that the friendly voice had imparted died again.

"I can't believe this is happening." He said softly. "Why would a person do this to another human being?"

"It's amazing what some people will do for what they believe in." Robbie's voice was equally soft, and full of sympathy for his new companion. It was clear that he had been in this dreadful place long enough to make his peace with the situation.

Belief. That's what these people were doing it for. As if a truly loving God would ask it of His followers!"

"Do you believe in anything?" Virgil asked hopelessly.

There was a long pause before he finally heard his companion's quiet answer. "I never used to. But now I believe in Hell."

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**Until next time then my dears. And a warning in advance; next chapter is NOT going to be pretty. **


	8. Faith

**Tadaaa! Update!**

**Thank you all for waiting so long! I had rather too much fun writing this, although I'm sure poor Virgil didn't enjoy it one little bit.**

**Warning ahead: Without wanting to spoil too much, there are some semi-graphical descriptions of torture in this chapter. I didn't want to go too into detail in case this put people off. If you're okay with the level here and don't mid something more graphic than I'm very much able to write it – just let me know in a review ^_^ On the other hand if you really don't like it or think that I wrote it badly please also let me know. It can be a vote of sorts.**

**So, without further ado, and no more gilding the lily - the latest chapter:**

"_Do you believe in anything?" Virgil asked hopelessly. _

_There was a long pause before he finally heard his companion's quiet answer. "I never used to. But now I believe in Hell."_

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Scott sat in the comfortable armchair, watching the television screen with haunted eyes.

There were tear-tracks on his face that he hadn't bothered to wipe away, and they had dried to leave itchy salted trails behind.

"…_The UN is sticking by its decision, despite growing pressure from both the public and the international community." _The Sky news reporter had suitably schooled her features into a concerned-yet-serious expression, but her eyes betrayed the utter glee of such a riveting headline. Needless to say, the wolves of the media circuit would be slaked in the bloodlust for months with this story.

Fed up with the repeat footage the young man flicked channels.

"_..And once again we must ask ourselves if this is truly the best course of action if even International Rescue can not reach out to help these people…"_

And again, onto a CNN channel which was playing a dubbed version of the ransom video.

"…_Whilst the UN discusses negotiations there are rumours that the Pentagon are hiring experts in data encryption to try and identify the IR operative in this video. It is hopeful that his family will come forward so as to receive the counselling and care they will need in this trying time…"_

"BULLSHIT!" Scott didn't realise that he had thrown the remote until it hit the wall with a loud crack and the back fell open. The absolute _gall_ of those people! All that "Come forward to receive care and counselling" crap! It was just a blatant attempt to find the identity of a Thunderbird. They didn't care about Virgil as a person, didn't care what he or his family were going through; all that mattered to the media circus was finding the scoop of a lifetime:

Naming an International Rescue operative.

The tiny silver lining was that there was very little chance of anyone successfully retrieving a good quality image from the video to run through facial recognition software. Brains had already tried and had confirmed that if he couldn't do it, no one could.

"Don't take it out on the remote, Scott."

The young man looked up to see his father standing in the doorway. Jeff seemed to have aged thirty years since he'd seen the first transmission, the lines of care on his face deepened with worry.

"This publicity may be a blessing in disguise." He said quietly.

Scott glared at the television. "I don't care. They shouldn't be allowed to use this as an excuse to dig for more information on International Rescue!"

For that's what the main international response had been.

John had been hounded by calls from the press demanding statements on the matter and what the Thunderbirds' official position was. In the same vein, civilians had been calling to ask for information that they believed the media was withholding from them. It had reached the stage where John had been forced to issue an emergency broadcast that he was closing the main channels of communication due to the nuisance calls.

"…_And conspiracy theorists have exposed that it is indeed the same mountain range – Tora Bora – that was the centre of the hunt for Bin-Laden in December 2001..."_ The news reader was still prattling on, an expression of fake concern across her face. "_…Which has led to questions being asked about the morals of International Rescue when faced with this crisis. Indeed people are already asking if it is possible that the Thunderbirds will be coerced into working with the Taliban in an effort to retrieve their comrade-"_

Jeff hit the power button before Scott imploded with rage and the TV screen went dead.

"How _dare_ they!"

"Scott…"

"They just accused us of siding with terrorists Dad!"

"I know, Scott. There's not exactly anything we can do about it."

The young man took a deep breath and nodded, obviously trying very hard to keep a handle on his temper. He slumped back in the chair, running a hand across his face.

"Sixteen hours…Has John come up with _anything_?"

"Not yet. Virgil's GPS was completely destroyed – as we'd guessed – so there's no real way to track his where-abouts." Jeff rested his hand on his son's shoulder. "At least, not this instant, but believe me, John is working himself to death to find a way."

Scott nodded again, although it didn't really seem that he'd actually heard the quiet reassurance. What family was prepared for this, after all? As International Rescue they had mentally readied themselves – insofar as that was possible – for one of their members to be killed in the line of action, but this was something unprecedented. Fire, flood, storm, mudslide, asteroid; they had thought they'd covered everything. Even hostage situations had been postulated. But no-one had ever thought about a hostage situation involving terrorists.

"How are Alan and Gordon?" The young man asked quietly.

"They'll be alright. Brains removed the shrapnel but it will be a day or so before Alan's back on his feet. Gordon's in better shape, but his broken arm will take its time to mend." Jeff glanced down at his eldest son. "How's your leg feeling?"

Scott shrugged listlessly. "Fine."

"Did Brains get the bullet out?"

"Yes. It hadn't hit anything major."

"Scot…"

"Dad, please. Right now there is only one thing I care about and that is getting Virgil the hell out of that nightmare!" Scott ground the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan. "I just want to get back out there and-"

"You know you can't." Jeff sat down on the arm of the chair, his shoulders slumped forwards. It was harrowing how much this was affecting him; even his military bearing had been eroded down. "The Tora Bora mountain range was extensively searched – not to mention blown apart – back in '01. If the US couldn't find Bin-Laden's hide-out, we're unlikely to come across it."

Scott snorted, still with his head in his hands. "You saw the video – they're some little fraction group, not even affiliated with the Taliban. Why won't the UN or NATO or _someone_ help?"

And that was the big problem. International Rescue was, well, just that; International. Maybe if they'd been allied to a particular nation there would have been less of a problem – even if they had declared themselves autonomous and therefore part of the UN it would have helped. But the Thunderbirds were private, secret, _alone_. No-one wanted to stick their neck out for the altruistic saviours.

And then there was the simple fact that the demands were completely unfeasible. The release of all jailed terrorists, removal of all foreign troops from Afghanistan, it was something that could and would never be done. Such demands had been made for years – for soldiers, aid workers, journalists, tourists, any unfortunate who were unlucky enough to be captured – and obviously none had ever been met. If the world wouldn't pay out for a full company of soldiers, they were hardly going to meet the demands for a single man.

Sometimes hostages just faded out of knowledge – assumed dead because there was no proof of life. Occasionally, oh so very occasionally, the hostage-takers gave up and let the person go, sometimes in exchange for money or arms. And then there were the kidnappers who made threats and carried them out, on video, show-boated to the world.

'_He. Will. Burn!'_

It wasn't hard to guess what Virgil would be facing in four months' time.

"How long did you say you'd been here?" Virgil asked. His voice was quiet, but in the sucking darkness hearing compensated for loss of sight and the question seemed unusually loud.

Robbie sighed. "Nearly two years. My unit was captured while out on patrol. Car bomb took out our truck."

"What happened to the rest of them?"

"Dead."

"From the bomb?"

"Two from that, the others died here."

Virgil leant back against the rough wall, trying to bite down the feeling of panic. His head was still throbbing, although the heavy nausea caused by the concussion was slowly ebbing away. Had the situation been any different he would have been worried about the effects of the repeated head injuries, but in his current state there were more important things to be worrying about.

Surely his family were looking for him?

He knew that that was a silly question. Of course they were looking. They were probably tearing the surrounding countryside apart with their bare hands trying to find him. His hand strayed to the hem of his jacket, fingers having to do the work for both touch and sight in the darkness as he located the GPS tracking dot sewn into the lining. It felt undamaged, but he knew that it would have been knocked out by the concussion grenade.

Useless.

No matter, his family would still be able to find him. They _had_ to be able to find him.

"I don't want to die here…" He hadn't meant to say it out loud, and the words sounded pitiful to his ears.

"It may not come to that. Are you politically valuable? Will anyone kick up enough fuss to the government to try a trade?"

Politically valuable? He was priceless under the right circumstances. "My family will be doing all they can, and my Father has a lot of influence with the senate." It was true at least; Jeff moved in circles with a lot of powerful people, either due to his prestigious background with NASA, or as the head of Tracy Enterprises.

For a wonderful moment Virgil felt the wild surge of hope. His Dad had enough political clout to get backing from numerous American senators in trying to arrange a trade or rescue.

Rescue.

The simple word put out the flame of hope so suddenly that it was almost like a physical blow.

Jeff was powerless because it wasn't Virgil Tracy who had been taken hostage; it was an International Rescue operative. The Tracy family could act as nothing more than concerned bystanders.

Virgil slumped back against the wall with a groan of despair. "No. Scrap that. No one's coming for me." He wasn't used to feeling as helpless as he did now, and consequently didn't know how to cope with the overwhelming sensations of panic.

Robbie shifted in the darkness and the American vaguely wondered what his new companion looked like.

"So, what are they ransoming you for?"

It also occurred to Virgil that the soldier had been without friendly contact for nearly two years – he was obviously going to want to talk.

"I don't know." He sighed. "I can't speak Dari. Or Punjabi, or Urdu."

"Do you speak anything useful?"

"Hindi and Guajarati? I don't know how much use they'll be."

"I think a couple of the thugs around here speak Hindi, but Dari's the main one in these parts."

Virgil snorted. "Right now I'm finding English hard enough to remember." He said drily. The statement was truer than he'd have liked; despite slowly recovering from the initial concussion his head was still ringing. "I don't suppose they've given us any water have they?"

"Sure, we're more useful alive at the moment." There was a clank of metal on stone as Robbie tried to find the water in the darkness. "It's filthy though."

"Right now I don't care." He found that he really didn't. The brackish water had the sharp taste of tin – probably coming from the pewter tankard it was in, but Virgil gulped down a couple of mouthfuls anyway. Logic said that he would probably regret it later, but in all honesty an upset stomach was going to be the least of his worries.

"So. Where are you from?" Robbie's voice wasn't really helping Virgil's headache, but he could understand the other man's need for friendly human contact after so long.

"The States, West coast." It seemed a whole world away right now. "What about you?"

"Yorkshire. That's northern England."

"I know the place. There's a cathedral there isn't there?"

"A minster, but close enough."

Minster, cathedral. Was this really the time and place to debate the finer points of architecture? Virgil supposed that at least it gave the semblance of normality. He'd actually been to Yorkshire and seen the minster in question – there'd been a fire down one of the mines in the region and the Thunderbirds had been called out to rescue the two dozen or so miners trapped underground. Afterwards they'd stayed for a few extra hours – Penny had a country manor near there – and had had a quick look around the city of York.

A fairly small place now that Virgil came to think about it.

They talked quietly for some time; there was no way of knowing how long. The conversation was light as the two men discussed themselves and their families, each trying to gauge if the other would be of any use in trying to find a way out of the nightmare. It appeared that whilst they came from wildly different backgrounds financially speaking, they were actually very much alike.

Like Virgil, Robbie had studied engineering at university and had a keen mind for the mechanical. Upon joining the army he had been assigned to the bomb-squad and had completed two full tours disarming road-side and hidden explosives. He'd been in the middle of a third tour when a car-bomb was remote detonated as his team had approached it in their truck. The survivors had been taken hostage.

Robbie's blasé description of the attack and his summary of the following two years as a captive – five months of which had been in complete isolation – chilled Virgil to the bone. As an International Rescue operative he'd been trained and exposed to an extraordinary amount of extreme situations, and even so couldn't imagine being quite so calm and collected as his companion.

Conversation turned to the outside world – the young soldier was desperate for any news Virgil could give him on the progression of the war, and of any large developments in the political or economic climate. There wasn't too much to tell, but the normalcy of their discussion was in sharp contrast to their setting.

At least an hour had passed before Robbie suddenly shushed the Tracy with alarm.

"They're coming."

A spasm of dread shot through Virgil's body. He hadn't realised just how afraid he already was of the faceless protagonists who had locked him up down here. There was the heavy thud of boots outside and the young man shrank back against the wall, biting back his fear so that he could at least present a brave face.

There was a grating noise of a key in the lock before the door was pushed open, scraping over the rough floor. The torches the men carried were not very bright, but after the pitch black of the cell they were almost blinding and both men had to shield their eyes against the painful light.

The group framed in the door-way were as heavily armed as they were when they'd shot the hostage video, and still wore the face-covering masks so that only their eyes were visible. Pointing at Virgil, one barked out a statement that caused the young man to shake his head incomprehensively. He couldn't even guess the language, let alone the meaning.

One strode forwards and thumped the butt of his gun into the side of Virgil's head, stunning him. He heard Robbie exclaim in anger, swiftly followed by a thump as someone silenced the soldier. As stars burst across Virgil's vision he was hauled up to his feet. Dizziness caused him to be unsteady on his feet, so he was not well equipped to fight back against the people who pulled him out of the cell and back into the rough-cut corridor. He managed to catch one on the chin with a swift punch before his arms were dragged behind him and wrenched up his back until the threat of his wrists breaking was enough to subdue him.

Virgil was dragged through a length of tunnel, lit only by the torches carried by the small group of men. The journey was brought to an abrupt end as the young man was thrown into a chamber at the end of the passageway.

It was dimly lit by fluorescent strip lighting across the ceiling, illuminating the rocky floor and bare walls. With his hands still free Virgil was able to cushion his fall and quickly scrambled back to his feet, backing into the rough stone wall as he spun to face the group.

One of them laughed, before saying something that again Virgil couldn't for the life of him comprehend.

"I don't understand you!"

The man's laughter died and he scowled at the American's declaration. Striding forwards he rammed the butt of his rifle into Virgil's stomach, driving the Tracy to his knees. The same angry statement was barked out and again meant just as little.

"I don't speak your language!" The use of English only resulted in another sharp blow, this time to his shoulder before the barrel of the gun was rammed up against his elbow, pinning it to the wall. The man gestured at the weapon, making it very clear that he was going to fire it if Virgil didn't begin to cooperate. Years of fire-arms training told the American that the shot wouldn't kill him, but would blow his arm to smithereens.

Terror hot-wired every cell in Virgil's brain, trying to find a way out of the situation. He couldn't speak whatever they were yelling at him, and they either couldn't or wouldn't speak English. That didn't leave many options. In desperation Robbie's advice came to mind and Virgil gambled on the only other language he knew that could possibly be of any help.

"_I don't understand you!_"

Hindi.

The pressure of the gun barrel eased slightly, although it was still a very real threat.

"_I don't understand you._" Virgil repeated, pulse thudding as the man's eyes narrowed at him.

"_How about now?"_ He asked, switching to the same language.

"_Yes."_

"_Good. Means you can now scream in a language _we _can understand. Not that filthy English."_ The man nodded his head at the others – who presumably weren't up to speed on Hindi. "_You two, grab him."_

Virgil had just enough time to wonder at that before the rifle's barrel was swung like a club into his stomach, driving him to his knees. The men seized him by his arms and dragged him across the chamber to where a small chair was stood.

Much to his horror the Tracy saw half a dozen pails of water alongside it and realisation dawned.

"_No!"_ He began to struggle wildly, despite the pain flaring up from his injured back muscles. The men pushed him down onto the chair, tying his arms behind his back and securing his ankles to the legs.

Panic was making it hard to think, but he was well aware that it was also the worst thing he could do in the situation. His mind knew what was about to happen and was already trying to tell him how to survive it and not let it work.

Easier said than done.

A hessian bag was pulled over his head, plunging him into darkness despite how hard he struggled against the bonds. Instinctively he tried to slow his breathing to make the most of the limited oxygen inside the heavy sack, but panic was contradicting logic.

Why were they doing this? It wasn't even like they were interrogating him!

The question was answered in the form of a familiar electronic beeping somewhere a few feet away; an old-fashioned camcorder.

_They're filming this_!

Added incentive to the death-threat already hanging over Virgil's head, it was another piece of publicity for the terrorists. _Look at what we can do to the famous International Rescue, look at what we can subject them to. _

As the water began to pour over his face and his brain began to scream that they were actually going to drown him only one thought could remain in Virgil's mind:

_Please don't let my family see this._

The gentle hum of the medical instruments changed slightly in tune, the heart monitor picking up its pace and disturbing Gordon out of his depressive daydreams.

He was sat in bed in the medical bay, arm in a sling and scowl on his face. Alan was lying in the next bed along, heavily bandaged and hooked up to various machines that were now proclaiming that he was slowly waking up. Gordon almost wished that the younger Tracy could stay unconscious for a little longer, just to preserve his ignorance of the current horrific situation. Just to be spared the blind panic that the rest of the family was going through.

However, such wishes weren't possible, and Alan began to stir, his eyes flickering.

"Hey there." Gordon left his own bed – knowing that he'd be very much told off for doing so – and sat down on the edge of Alan's mattress. His brother's sluggish gaze slowly met his own and a tired smile crossed the blonde's face.

"Hey Gordo.." The youngest Tracy swallowed, a grimace crossing his expression. "Head hurts…"

"Do you remember what happened?" Gordon asked quietly. He watched in concern as his brother frowned in concentration.

"Afghanistan..?"

"Well done." That was a relief at least – amnesia on top of everything else would have just been too much. "You were hurt on the rescue; we were attacked and you were shot."

Alarm crossed Alan's face. "Shot?" He blinked rapidly, as if trying to process this. "In the head?"

"Well, I think it was technically shrapnel. But it didn't actually pierce your skull, just took a large chunk out of the back of your head." Gordon felt a little more relief at the wan smile Alan gave him.

"Is that meant to make me feel better?" He asked hoarsely.

"It was meant to."

The younger blonde nodded slightly, closing his eyes again. "I assume I'm already on the maximum amount of painkillers?"

Gordon had to smile at how articulate the injured man was. "I'm afraid so."

"Damn." Alan's tired gaze focussed on the red-head again and moved over the sling on Gordon's arm. "Were you badly hurt?"

"Broken arm and a bit of shrapnel. My main issue was dehydration after I flew Two back."

The younger Tracy nodded again, obviously reassured by this. "Good." He leant back into the pillows, pain crossing his face again. Then confusion coloured his expression. "Why did you fly Two? Where was Virgil?"

Gordon's mind raced.

What to do? Stall? Lie? Tell him…?

His emotions must have shown across his face because Alan tried to sit up, suddenly alarmed.

"What's happened to Virgil!"

It was cold. And wet.

He was shivering, although he was pretty sure that that was not solely due to the low temperature.

Suspended by his arms between two armed men, Virgil was dragged back through the maze of tunnels that led to where-ever he was being kept. Awareness had become a casual acquaintance, but the memory of what had happened circled around his head like a vulture.

He was scared and in pain, but above all he was ashamed.

Logic said that he had nothing to be ashamed of; he'd stood his ground far longer than most men could boast. But there was something – maybe growing up with five boisterous brothers, maybe being a member of International Rescue – that made him thoroughly ashamed that he had shown any weakness to these men. Or maybe it was just the shear mortification that not only had he been tortured and humiliated, but that the whole thing had been filmed and was even now probably showing on all major news channels.

His family would be heart-broken to see it and if anything else, he didn't want them to know just how much of a nightmare he was in.

There was the rasping scrape of metal on rough stone which jarred him out of his semi-conscious state and made him slightly more aware of his surroundings. The door was the same – and now regrettably familiar – one from when he was first locked up and he could only surmise that he was being thrown back into the same cell.

"_Wait until the world sees you now, International Rescue._" One of the men spat as he was thrown bodily into the fetid darkness. "_That film will be all over the internet."_

Virgil landed face down on the rocky floor, but rolled over in time to see the door grind close behind him, the men's laughter cut-off as the heavy metal locked in place. For the briefest of moments all that he could really feel was fury, then the pain took over again.

God what _didn't_ hurt?

At least two ribs were fractured, of that he was certain. Bruises over laid the wounds from the rescue, although – and here dry humour began to act as a mental safeguard – at least the water-boarding had ensured that any open wounds were clean. The thought made him want to laugh.

Or cry – it was hard to tell which.

And then Robbie's accusing voice out of the darkness brought a whole new terror to the situation:

"You're a member of _International Rescue_?"

**Until next time dear readers. And please, please drop me a review to let me know if I've managed to pull this off. There are so many emotions running around every characters head that I really don't know if I've successfully portrayed what's happening.**

**Also, if there's any one who's not really been in the lime-light enough, also let me know and I'll see if I can stick them in :D **

**And if you're too lazy to write a review (I know that I all too often can be) it needn't be an essay, even a quick 'it woz gud' will be fine for me. Or 'it wox crp.' Either way :D**


	9. Desperate

**Here's another one! And at the moment of me posting this it's the 7****th**** of January, so happy new year everyone, and someone remind me to amend this note come July :D **

**Kudos to Squid, who had to be forced into finding time to read this, but then helped a great deal in making it flow better, and mucho praise and thanks to my ever-awesome beta, Manu! Love you both!**

**Faves are treasured, alerts make me stupidly happy and reviews are hoarded like diamonds.**

**Thanks for sticking with this despite the stupidly long amount of time between updates!**

_He wanted to laugh._

_Or cry – it was hard to tell which._

_And then Robbie's accusing voice out of the darkness brought a whole new terror to the situation:_

"_You're a member of _International Rescue_?"_

MWMWMWMWMWMMWM

What to say?

Lie?

For a long moment Virgil was entirely silent, trying to work out how the hell to answer. Robbie knew his name, his nationality and either already knew or would soon know what he looked like. The one thing that the Thunderbirds had tried their hardest to never let out and he'd blown his cover.

"Virgil?"

He couldn't lie. Not to the one person on his side here.

"Yes." It was a small word, and spoken quietly, but the implications behind it were enormous; Robbie's sharp intake of breath was enough to tell him that.

"But…Surely that means they'll be looking for you!" The English man said in obvious excitement. "Don't you guys have all sorts of equipment and stuff that could get us out of here?"

Virgil rolled carefully onto his back, muscles protesting loudly at the movement. He took a couple of seconds to let the pain die down before replying again.

"They don't know where we are." He said quietly.

"But…_International Rescue_!"

Virgil smiled grimly into the darkness. "We're underground and my GPS tracker was destroyed. They can't find me, and therefore can't get us out of here."

"But…" Robbie was a sensible young man, and recognised what his companion was trying to say, but after such a revelation he couldn't exactly let it go. "Can't we do _anything_? Contact them or something?"

"And do you have a radio or mobile?"

There was a long silence.

"But surely the world leaders will do something to help! Surely they'll be more amenable to demands, or try to send in troops or something?"

"I don't know. Maybe." The Tracy didn't sound like he wanted to be having this conversation. The thought of ransom demands being met was especially painful; it went against everything the Thunderbirds stood for. Along the same train of thought, sending in more troops would result in a death-toll that he didn't want on his head.

That didn't leave many options.

"Maybe? _Maybe_? Come on! Why wouldn't they? You're International Rescue for God's sake!" Robbie's violent exclamation made Virgil jump. "How can you just say '_maybe_'?"

"Well, how can I know what the world's politics will do in response?" The Tracy asked incredulously. "And I can't imagine the head of International Rescue would allow the release of terrorists, or the payment of money or whatever it is they're asking. Nothing should persuade them to do that, I'm not that indispensable."

"How can you just sit there so calmly and say that? Why can't you _do _anything? For God's sake get us out of here!"

"There is no 'us'!" Virgil snapped back, stunned and angry at his companion's reaction. "Can't you see that, Robbie? To all intents and purposes, you've been dead to the world from the moment you were captured two years ago – no-one knows you survived. As far as anyone is concerned I am the only prisoner here, and people will assume that International Rescue can just damn well find themselves another pilot!"

His angry tirade sent the other man into a sullen silence.

Logically speaking Virgil did understand where his companion's anger had come from. The hope that Robbie must have felt when he realised who the Tracy actually was could only be comparable to his horrified disappointment that the knowledge would not help their situation what-so-ever. It was an understandable fury, and not truly aimed at Virgil but at their still-hopeless situation.

The silence stretched out uncomfortably for an undetermined amount of time before Robbie cleared his throat cautiously. "So…Which one _do_ you pilot?"

Despite the horror, despite the pain and despite the gut wrenching terror Virgil found himself genuinely smiling. Robbie was obviously trying to pretend that their argument hadn't just happened and the enthusiasm in his companion's voice was hard to miss. He knew that their cover was the thing the Thunderbirds valued most highly, and that he'd already blown that quite spectacularly – even if it hadn't been his fault.

Suddenly priorities seemed somewhat different in this cold dark hell.

"Two. I pilot Thunderbird Two."

It was the possibly the most liberating sentence he'd ever spoken.

Maybe he shouldn't have said it. Scratch that; he _certainly_ shouldn't have said it, but now that he had he felt like a weight had disappeared off his shoulders. After all, what would Robbie achieve from telling any of their captors'? And if he did the group already knew he flew one of the machines – it would make little difference for them to know which one.

"That's the green one, right?"

"Yeah."

Robbie chuckled quietly. "Awesome. You know, I always wanted to meet one of you guys. Never dreamt it would be like this."

"I never dreamt I'd tell anyone." Virgil admitted quietly. "Rule number one of International Rescue is that you don't talk about International Rescue."

"And I don't count?"

"Who would you tell?"

"Touché."

The Tracy carefully began to pull himself into something approaching an upright position and leant back against the rough wall with a groan.

"Are you alright?" Robbie asked.

Virgil laughed bitterly. "Not really, but there's not much either of us can do about it."

It was still pitch black in the cell, so the young man had to slowly assess the damage by feel. From what he could tell there was nothing especially serious, but the number of injuries were an issue by themselves.

"This was supposed to be an in-and-out rescue job." He muttered. He heard Robbie shift in the darkness, perhaps sitting up a little, or just changing position; it was impossible to tell.

"I never even asked why you were here." The other man said quietly. "What was the rescue?"

Virgil hesitated again. He'd given enough away as it was, and to someone who was pretty much a total stranger. He didn't know who Robbie was. The man might not even be called Robbie, he might not even be English, and he might not even be with the army. But right now he was the only friend Virgil had. And even if the man had lied about every single other detail about himself one thing was for sure; he was in exactly the same dire position as the Tracy.

Quietly, Virgil began to explain what had happened.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

An English Lady conducts herself with elegance, poise and dignity at every occasion. She is composed and balanced under stress and never shows her emotions in company.

Lady Penelope was struggling to adhere to these rules of the English upper-class as she paced her drawing room, waiting to hear back from Jeff. In all her life she had never felt as scared as she did now, despite all that she had encountered and all that she had lived through. Even having an express train bearing down on her at full throttle hadn't been as frightening as the situation now.

The tangent drew her thoughts back to that tunnel with the Anderbad Express and – as always – the memory momentarily eclipsed the rest of reality. The lights, the screech of the train as it rounded the corner and then …Virgil.

His arm across her stomach, and a sudden electrifying moment of eye-contact. She'd never have considered something like that happening before, and afterwards it had been one of her only clear memories from the nightmare. Afterwards she'd expected things to be awkward, but with the usual Tracy ignorance he hadn't seen that anything had happened between them.

Bless him.

She'd paced at least six circuits of the drawing room by now. Virgil had saved her life so casually, just as he had for thousands across the planet. There were countless numbers of people who – in the worst moments of their lives – had been suddenly swept out of danger by the middle Tracy brother. And who was there to help him?

No-one.

She'd accosted every member of the British high command that she knew, demanding to know what they intended to do about the situation. When they had not been any use she had upped her game and taken it to the House of Lords – her position in the upper-class meaning she had a good standing. They had promised to take her argument to the UN, but realistically speaking, if the UN hadn't done anything up to this point they weren't intending to do so now.

With few other options she had tried one last route to influencing someone who could help and had telephoned the Duchess of Royston, who was second cousin to the Prince of Wales. Whether the woman could appeal to any higher powers remained to be seen, but it was worth a try; the British royal family had little political clout in the rest of the world.

Oh, why wasn't anyone _calling_?

Agitated and stressed, she rang the bell-pull – more out of lack of anything to do than for any real reason. Within moments the doors to the room had opened and Parker was bowing in his usual way, a questioning look on his face.

"News M'lady?" It said a lot of how worried he also was that he skipped the usual butler's duty of asking why he had been summoned.

"No Parker, none as yet." Penelope forced herself to sit down to keep herself from pacing again. "I have been in contact with those that I believe could help, but so far nothing."

"And no news from the Island, M'lady?"

"No, and that is unsurprising for God alone knows how bad they must all be feeling, but I wish I was more in the loop." She slapped her hand down on the arm of the Chippendale chair. "I _hate_ how out of the way I am here! If only there was less of a distance between our isle and the States!"

"I can h'arrange for your private jet to be made ready, M'lady." Parker said. "We can leave within the hour."

Penelope waved the suggestion away. "No, no I couldn't leave now: one of my contacts may get back to me. I only wish there was more I could do." Her eyes narrowed as her gaze fell on her butler. "Parker…"

"No, M'lady." As was often the case, the man had already anticipated her question. "I 'ave few contacts in the h'army oo could be of any use, and none of 'em know of anything. I asked as soon as we 'eard the news."

"Oh well, thank you for trying Parker." The lady's gaze had already gone back to the teapot that sat innocently on the table; still hoping that the communicator inside would light up. "Maybe I should call them…? Or at least John – he must be feeling as isolated as myself."

Parker remained silent; well aware that he didn't have an answer to the question. He was well acquainted with all of the Tracy boys and thought of each of them very highly – not least of all Virgil. The young man was one of the few people who had ever consistently beaten Parker as a marks-man and this had not only gained the butler's friendship but also his respect. Of course, he respected all of International Rescue, but anyone who could out-shoot him earned that extra little bit.

He was stirred from his musings as Lady Penelope stood up and smoothed her dress down.

"I'm going to call John – he will at least be able to update us on the current situation and we might be able to provide the poor dear with some welcome respite from the stress."

"Won't he be coming down from 'is space station for the duration, M'lady?" Parker asked in surprise.

"I couldn't possibly know, but I do hope so. The confines of space are no place for someone when their family is in trouble." Penelope was busying herself with the teapot and finally succeeded in re-tuning it to her desired frequency. Turning the small knob on the lid caused the little antenna to shoot up and she was able to speak into the mouthpiece.

"Calling International Rescue. John, are you there dear?"

There was a buzz of static then one of the large portraits on the wall slid back to reveal a TV monitor displaying the feed from Thunderbird Five complete with an exhausted looking John. He managed a half-hearted smile when he saw the lady.

"Hello Penelope. I would say good morning, but I have no idea what time of day it is over there."

"Nearly supper-time, but that's not a matter of importance. How are you holding up John?"

He shrugged, turning to glance at another monitor, before looking back at her. "Could be worse. Could be a whole lot better."

"And still no news?"

"Nothing interesting. The world leaders are being ignorant arseholes, but I'm sure you're aware of that."

Penelope nodded. It spoke volumes that John was swearing in her presence and not realising – he was usually such a well-spoken young man.

"You can be assured I am doing all I can from here; but I have little influence where it counts in this case." She said. "I'm sure you know what I mean."

The space-marooned astronaut nodded with a tired smile. "Only too well. I've spoken with Dad and we've decided that it's better if I stay up here for now; Five's ability to pick up transmissions means I'm in a much better place to search for Virgil electronically. If nothing else I'm hoping that his tracker may start working again. We would at least know where in the mountains he is."

"Could it start working h'again spontaneously?" Parker had been standing silently in the corner of the room so far, but seemed unable to help himself from asking that question. However, neither John nor Lady Penelope seemed to mind.

The space-monitor shook his head. "Possibly. We've assumed that it was broken in the concussion blast and would therefore need to be repaired but to be honest we're purely guessing why he went off the grid." He tried to look a little more cheerful. "However, with his experience if anyone could fix it, it would be Virgil. He is an engineer after all." None of them needed to add that Virgil's expertise in engineering was mostly in heavy machinery and their workings, not necessarily in electronics.

Penelope smiled compassionately as the young man yawned and quickly tried to excuse himself. "My dear, have you slept at all? You look positively asleep on your feet."

"Haven't been able to. It's not a problem; I have ample supplies of coffee and chocolate."

"Caffeine is not a substitute for sleep, my dear boy." She was so used to speaking to everyone in such a manner that it didn't occur to her that the 'dear boy' was in fact a few years older than her.

"It's served me perfectly well so far."

"Not good enough, John." Penelope frowned at the image on the screen. "You can set the computers to scan for those signals you are currently searching for manually and get at least five hours. You are NASA trained, you know what I'm saying and you know that I'm right."

The blonde man sighed irritably, glancing at one of the other monitors again before looking back to the Lady. "I would rather not."

"I don't care. You are pale, obviously exhausted and haven't eaten for God-knows-how-long. Your family have enough to worry about without you suddenly collapsing on the outer edge of orbit."

This resulted in a more genuine grin from the American. "I guess you may have a point."

"And a very important point too! If there is no more news and nothing more to be said then you should go and tell your father that you will be off-line for the next few hours and get some well-needed rest."

John, tired as he was, was sensible enough to know that she was speaking sense and he would be of much more use to everyone if he was well-rested. And they did say that the best ideas came to you when asleep, so it could possibly give him the brainwave required to find his missing brother.

Bowing his head slightly in acquiescence he decided to accept good advice. "I think getting some sleep might be handy. If nothing else it will give me a chance to think."

Penelope smiled. "In that case I'll bid you adieu for tonight."

"I'll keep you updated, Lady Penelope. Thanks for calling." The space monitor waved farewell, as he ended the call then sat back in his chair. After a few moments he leant back over the keyboard and began to type in the commands to set all the computer scans to automatic.

MWMWMWMWMWMWM

_Two months, three and a half weeks later._

Time had passed indeterminably for all concerned.

The world's media had remained hungry for the story and the captors had fed them all manner of titbits in the form of grainy videos of both their prisoner and themselves renewing their threats. As predicted, the world's leaders had quibbled over what to do about the situation and as usual there was still no answer. The views of the general populace – that everything that could be done should be done to rescue the Thunderbirds pilot – didn't seem to bother the politicians.

International Rescue, however, had not been idle and the vast network of agents had been utilized like never before. People who so far had only ever been used for intelligence were suddenly finding themselves in the field and field operatives were going undercover. The various operatives in the Middle East were trying, with little success, to infiltrate various cells and organisations with a hope of hearing news of Virgil. For the first time since its making IR was going onto the offensive.

Rescues still occurred – Thunderbird One had been repaired and ready to fly again only a fortnight after the initial attack. There had been a heated discussion over what to do with Thunderbird Two, and eventually it had been agreed that Gordon would have to fly her for the duration. The thought that it may have to be a permanent solution was one they didn't want to entertain.

The normal working roles had all had to be re-thought – especially with John remaining in Five – and Tintin had taken up a full-time position as an operative. The personal loss of Virgil was extremely painful but they hadn't initially taken into account the loss of his skills in the field.

There had already been a number of rescues that were nearly unsuccessful due to lack of experience on Gordon and Alan's parts. Both were able to fly Thunderbird Two – and skilfully at that – but landing on an unstable spit of rock in the middle of a lava flow, or navigating straight into the heart of a cyclone were jobs that required Virgil's near-psychic link with the ship.

And, of course, there was the devastating psychological impact that losing the middle Tracy had caused.

The laughter had gone from the island. No jokes, no arguments and – almost worst in a way – no piano. The instrument sat silent in the corner of the living room, a sheet of music still on the stand waiting to be played. No-one dared close the lid.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

There was no way for Virgil to tell how much time had passed but his captors had taken a malicious pleasure in informing him of the date every now and then.

Three months, give or take a week.

Three long months of torture, neglect and fear.

The cell was still pitch black so he had no way of seeing how bad he looked, but some things were apparent despite that. The food, such as it was, was sufficient to keep the two men alive, but not in any great state of health and Virgil knew that he'd lost an awful lot of weight; most of which had been muscle mass. His hair had grown and now straggled around his face in greasy tangles, unseen in the darkness, but irritating.

And – a sore point if ever there was one – he had a beard.

Not a large one by any means, but he hadn't been able to shave in three months and nature had taken its course.

Tired, hungry, permanently in pain and dishevelled. One of his few saving graces was that he had been immunised against pretty much everything a vaccine had been invented for as a member of IR, and had an immune system to rival the best. That had saved him from catching any serious illness so far, and he'd done his best to keep as sanitary as the conditions allowed.

And he knew that he was running out of time.

As human nature would dictate he had spent most of his time trying to think up some form of escape plan. Some strategies were mere daydreams with no hope of actually working, others were methodical and he and Robbie had spent considerable amounts of time working through them.

But no plan had been attempted yet.

Robbie had carefully explained that any scheme they thought up would have to be absolutely fool-proof. When first captured he and his companions had tried to put various plans into action and had quickly learnt the consequences of such attempts.

Death.

They had one shot and it couldn't be something that had already been tried.

And then a flash of inspiration had hit.

In the lining of Virgil's jacket lay a sliver of hope. Every night – insofar as there was a night-time in the darkness – he would fall into a fitful sleep clutching the hem of the coat, feeling the little GPS tracking dot hiding there. Broken and useless. And every night he would fall asleep wishing that it could be of some use, that it could be fixed and start relaying a signal again.

And then he'd remember that they were underground anyway and that even if it was working there wouldn't be a signal.

Hope came in the unlikely form of a man sent into their cell to replace the water jug. Much to the captives surprise he had pushed the heavy door open whilst yelling furiously into a hand-held radio – evidently in the middle of an argument with a colleague. The implication of this had been like a bolt of lightning; these men had a relay-system that allowed their radios to work underground.

And suddenly a plan began to materialise.

If they could get hold of such a radio they would not only be able to call up to Thunderbird Five, but also wire the GPS tracker into the circuit to signal their position.

They would be back on the grid!

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

**And thus we begin to draw in on that prologue.**

**Until next time my friends…**


	10. Gambling with long odds

**Speedy update! (well, for me at any rate). For Manu, once again in thanks for her sterling work in rooting out mistakes.**

**Warnings: Blood, vomit, general danger situations and lots of worried Tracy's ^_^ Might be a little gory for some people, but is probably not as bad as previous chapters.**

**Once again, reviews fuel my passion for writing – you have no idea how happy I am to see that alert in my inbox :D So love and hugs to all who review! Or fave, or alert :D**

_And suddenly a plan began to materialise._

_If they could get hold of such a radio they would not only be able to call up to Thunderbird Five, but also wire the GPS tracker into the circuit to signal their position._

_They would be back on the grid!_

How to get hold of a radio, attach a GPS tracker and send out a call without anyone noticing?

Films and books make such acts appear routine and easy but when your life is on the line they are suddenly so much harder than they seem.

The two men worked tirelessly at the problem, trying to worry out every little kink they could think of. Failure wasn't an option and success seemed impossible but slowly a plan began to form out of the component ideas. It appeared that the crucial point of the plan was getting a radio off of a guard without said guard realising and without arousing suspicion in any of the other men.

Careful observations when food was brought in allowed the two prisoners to determine that the radios were generally kept attached to the men's belts by Kirby grips – difficult to undo and remove without being noticed. That was the first problem.

It seemed that to get their hands on the equipment they would need to render some of the men unconscious so that they wouldn't notice them removing the radio. Which was the second and infinitely bigger problem.

Knocking out a fully grown man is not as easy as certain spy films would lead people to believe and there is a fine line between a blow that can cause loss of consciousness compared to one that causes a fatal haemorrhage. There are also a finite number of ways in which someone can take another man out without it being immediately apparent to other people what had happened.

In short, they needed to subdue a guard in such a way that the other men would not suspect anything was amiss.

Easier said than done.

In the end an answer came from the most unlikely set of circumstances.

Usually their food was brought in by two men just in case the prisoners had any smart ideas about fighting back. As it was neither of them had done so at any point, if only because they knew how futile such an action would be without a proper plan in place. And then one day Robbie had been ill and – trying to at least keep the cell as clean as possible – had had to vomit into the empty water tankard.

In response only one man had come in to collect the pewter mug and bowl whilst the other had waited outside in disgust. The one sent in had been young, barely even an adult and obviously the kid they made do all the donkey work and dirty jobs – such as cleaning up prisoners' vomit.

An idea had struck.

A day or so later and they had talked it through until they were both as certain as they could be that there were as few things that could go wrong as possible and were ready to give it a go.

The main point was which of the two of them should do the knocking out and it lead to quite a heated debate. In the end it was decided that Virgil would probably be the better one for the job, if only because he would make more of an attempt to do it carefully. Robbie had run out of humanitarian feelings for their captors after two whole years and would cheerfully have left one in a coma if he could.

So it was time to spring their trap.

Since Virgil was going to be taking the active role in this deception, his companion had to be the one to force himself to throw up again. The British soldier was less than happy with the arrangement, but didn't complain since he was well aware that their freedom rested on this working.

With Robbie miserably vomiting in a corner of the cell Virgil banged loudly on the steel door – knowing that the guards often patrolled past it.

Sure enough it didn't take long before there was an angry exclamation outside and the tiny hatch-way on the door, up at eye-level, was slammed back.

"_What?_" The man spoke in Hindi, as most of them now did to address their prisoners after realising the American didn't speak a word of their own language. He recoiled back slightly as the smell of illness escaped through the small gap.

"_My companion is sick, please; can we have some more water?_" Virgil tried to make the plea sound as pathetic and hopeless as possible. He glanced back at Robbie, who was lying in the corner and doing a very good impersonation of someone with a fatal illness.

"_What's wrong with him?"_ The man demanded angrily.

"_I don't know, he's been sick the past few days. Please, he needs water."_

The guard snarled, obviously trying to determine if the soldier was worth keeping alive or not. The two prisoners watched him anxiously – this was the one thing they had no control over in the plan and the man could quite easily decide that they didn't need Robbie as a hostage anymore and just shoot him.

As it was after a few tense moments he nodded his head grudgingly. "_Fine, I'll send someone._" He slammed the hatch closed again, sealing the two men in darkness again.

"So far so good." Robbie said quietly.

"We just have to hope they only send the kid. Otherwise we may have to try this more than once."

"Next time you get to be the one to throw up then."

Virgil huffed slightly in laughter at that comment. He didn't want to jinx it, but he was feeling more alive right now than he had since being captured. The sudden flood of adrenalin accompanied with the tense sensation of a plan going into action was eerily similar to the feeling he got each time they began a rescue operation. Reconnaissance, trouble-shoot, plan, operate. Of course, they didn't consciously go through that check-list, but that was what began each of the Thunderbirds' rescues and he realised that he'd planned this in just the same way. It felt good.

There were footsteps in the corridor and he shrank back against the wall perpendicular to the doorway.

"Okay, here goes nothing."

There was a scuffling noise as someone tried to fit the key into the lock and Virgil's brain went into overdrive. If the person was struggling to unlock the door that suggested that they only had one hand free. That in turn suggested that there wasn't anyone else they could ask to help them and therefore meant that there was only one person outside their cell.

He had positioned himself on the side of the room so that the door opened away from him and he would be able to see if anyone else stood in the corridor outside. He held the tiny GPS dot in his hand, ready and waiting.

The key finally turned and the Tracy had to turn his head away briefly as the sudden light – dim though it was – hurt his eyes. The door was pushed open, making it immediately obvious that it was the youngest of the men and that he was alone. He glanced at Virgil, who tried to look as pathetic and helpless as possible, before deciding that he wasn't a threat and turning his attention to Robbie.

As the young man leant down over the British soldier Virgil sprang up behind him. He turned, but not quick enough as Robbie grabbed hold of his legs to hold him in place and the American's punch to the temple brought him down.

"We did it…" The Tracy seemed slightly stunned that it had actually worked, and it took Robbie shaking him quite violently to make him turn his attention to the task at hand.

Quickly the two men dragged the unconscious guard back out into the corridor so that it would look like he had collapsed outside their cell. Whilst Robbie attempted to make it look more like the man had simply lost consciousness Virgil unhitched the radio.

Carefully pulling the back off he held it under one of the dim halogen strip-lights in the tunnel to see in properly.

"Hurry, I can hear someone!" Robbie hissed.

Ignoring him for the moment, Virgil followed one of the wires to its origin before hooking a dirty finger-nail under it and pulling it loose. He slipped the GPS dot into the wire's original place, and then carefully secured the tiny copper strand under the tracker so that the circuit was rebuilt, and now included the GPS.

"Right, got it!"

"Good, come on!"

It seemed contradictory against human nature. They were free from their cell, and yet instead of running they were locking themselves back in. Completely opposing what they felt they should be doing, but common sense said that the men would find them and most likely shoot them before they ever reached the surface. Let alone what they planned to do if they managed to escape up into the mountains.

So instead the two men pushed the door closed again, hearing the bolt automatically click into place and locking them back into the tiny cell. It appeared that it wasn't a moment too soon either as there were running footsteps outside and Robbie quickly returned to his 'I'm ill and dying' position in the far corner. Virgil stashed the radio directly next to the door-jamb so that when the door was open it would mask the hiding place before sitting beside his friend and pretending to be trying to help him.

There were raised voices outside before the small hatch-way was slammed back. An angry pair of eyes glared in at the two men who theatrically shielded their eyes from the light before the hole closed again and plunged them back into darkness.

"What are they saying?" Virgil hissed.

Robbie listened to the stream of furious Dari outside. "They're calling him a wimp and that they should send him back to his mother." He couldn't hide the humour in his voice at that. "I think we're in the clear."

"As long as he's confused and doesn't remember coming in here."

There was a scraping sound and the voices began to grow steadily quieter as the men stormed back up the corridor, presumably dragging their insensible colleague and Robbie sat back up.

"Right, let's get the hell out of here!"

Virgil retrieved the radio and ran his fingers over the buttons. He'd tried to memorise the layout outside in the light and now in the pitch dark he felt his way to the on/off switch. Flicking it he was pleasantly surprised when the other buttons and dials lit up.

"That's going to make life easier." He knew that technically it didn't matter which frequency he used, but he went for a long wave length that was more likely to travel the distance he needed it to. It was as he went to hold his thumb down on the call button that he realised just how hard his heart was beating. It was like there was a large base drum in his chest, trying to fight its way out and he was amazed that Robbie hadn't commented on how loud it was. Taking a deep breath he lifted the radio to his mouth.

"Calling International Rescue."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

John was sat in his usual chair, half-watching the pattern of a large typhoon in the Pacific Ocean and half trying to concentrate on a game of mine-sweeper.

His attention was caught as the lights around the radio receiver began to flash and he pushed his chair over to the panel.

"_Call…Int…Rescue…ing….inter…nal….cue."_

He quickly adjusted a few of the dials so that the signal was fed through the huge processing computer and unscrambled into something he could actually understand.

"This is International Rescue, hearing you loud and clear."

He hadn't recognised the voice – it was dry and hoarse – so the next words left him reeling.

"_John! Oh thank God!"_

He felt his whole world stop.

The voice was different, but there was no mistaking who it was.

He almost fell out of his chair as he scrambled to start recording the message. "_Virgil_? My God, Virgil, is that you?" Never in his life had he felt such a mix of emotions. He wanted to scream and cry and shriek with laughter all at once. Was it even possible? Was he dreaming? Something told him that he wasn't.

"_Listen, I don't have much time – they might notice that a signal is being broadcast without their knowledge. I've fixed my GPS tracker into this handset; you should be able to track me again." _Virgil was speaking at break-neck speed and John was professional enough to force his raging emotions back and listen. He quickly flicked up the digital map he had of the mountain range on one of the computer screens and to his everlasting delight a small red dot – that he had spent the past few months praying to see – had suddenly appeared.

"Yes, yes I can see you on the screen. My God, are you okay, are you hurt? Where are they keeping you? We've been so worried-"

"_I'm okay, not great but okay. I'm being kept underground, Scott will need the ground-penetrating radar to find this place." _Virgil sounded every inch as calm and professional as he always did on rescues and it made John try to curb his enthusiasm again.

"Underground, got it. What numbers are we talking about?"

"_There are about fifty men, as far as I can tell. And they mean business – bring fire-arms and be prepared to use them. Oh, and I'm not the only one here; there's a Robbie Drayton from a British regiment, Yorkshire Royal Fusiliers, with me. We're both in reasonably good condition but would rather appreciate being rescued."_ There was a sudden catch in Virgil's voice. Maybe another wouldn't have noticed, but John knew his brother well enough to know when the brunette was trying not to cry. _"Please John, get us out of here."_

"Already doing it." John had brought up all the most current satellite images of the area and was scanning through them. "We're coming to get you, bro!"

"_Thank you. I've got to go, but tell the others I love them."_

"Not a problem." John felt the tears begin to run down his own cheeks as he made the promise. "We all love you and we're coming to get you out of there, just hang on a little longer!"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

Only Alan was in the living room when John's portrait signalled an incoming call. The young man had been trying to read a new issue of _Motor-racing Today_ but had been unable to focus on any of the articles, so the distraction was welcome.

Expecting to see John as calm and confident as normal he was completely taken aback when his older brother appeared on the screen wild-eyed and obviously crying.

"_John?_ What the hell's wrong?"

"Main alarm, sound the main alarm!" John all but shouted the command at him and Alan actually took a step backwards.

"What-"

"SOUND THE GOD-DAMNED ALARM, ALAN!"

The younger blonde did as he was told, wide-eyed. He'd never seen John lose composure quite so dramatically. Sure, everyone expected outbursts from Gordon, and Scott could have quite the temper when seriously annoyed, but never John.

The alarm rang through the house, alerting everyone to the fact that there was a rescue to be presented to them. It was only moments before Brains and Scott rounded the corner into the room, Brains still in a lab-coat and Scott decked out in safety-goggles. The rest of the house-hold appeared in the same manner; still holding whatever it had been that they were doing before running in to answer the call. As was often the case Gordon was the last in, soaking wet and carrying a pair of flippers.

"John! Good grief, are you alright?" Jeff was visibly alarmed at how his second eldest looked, but the space-monitor quickly interrupted him.

"Dad, I heard from Virgil!"

The statement stunned the room into silence. Grandma sat down heavily on one of the chairs, fanning herself with Alan's discarded magazine and Tintin gasped loudly, both hands flying up to cover her mouth in shock.

It was Scott who managed to recover first. "Say that again…"

"Virgil. God knows how but he got his hands on a radio and called me." John realised he was speaking at the speed of light and tried to slow down a little. "He's got his GPS working again and I can track him. Get air-borne and I'll tell you everything else whilst you're on your way."

Gordon was already at the control panel at Jeff's desk. "What pod?"

"Whatever has the most fire-power. Virgil said we'd need to be on the offensive, there are about fifty of them and we can assume they're heavily armed."

John watched his father's face as he said that and could visibly see the conflict appear as Jeff tried to think of better way to approach the problem. "We don't have a choice, Dad."

"I don't want to condone International Rescue using lethal-force."

"Then we'll try to assess the situation once we're there." Scott's statement was only just heard as he'd already stepped up to the wall and was swinging round into Thunderbird One's bay as he spoke.

Alan and Gordon had both already made their ways to the pilot and passenger entrances of Thunderbird Two's bay and Tintin was following them, with Brains right behind her struggling out of his lab-coat. Jeff sat down at his desk, fighting the impulse to follow his boys straight into one of the two craft. Usually he was alright with steering the rescues from the island, but now that it was his boy's life at stake he desperately wanted to go with his other sons. However, logic told him that whilst the spirit was willing the body was not up to the job at his age and that he would be of much more use at his desk presiding over the rescue as usual.

Hearing the rumble as Thunderbird one traversed the tracks to her launch site beneath the pool, Jeff took a steadying breath. After so long being helpless they were finally going to do what they did best and get Virgil out of there.

"Thunderbirds are go!"

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Scott had reined in his impatience and instead of shooting off at top-speed he held back and kept pace with Thunderbird Two. They were technically infringing on various air-spaces as they flew over Afghanistan and so far two convoys of fighter jets had tried to warn them off. However, the International Rescue emblem held quite a bit of weight, and both groups were called off after Jeff had stern words with the various army bases they belonged to.

They flew in silence, tense and worried as they tried not to think about what they might be flying into. For the first time in International Rescue's history they were carrying fire-arms with the certain knowledge that they would be forced to use them, and that didn't sit well with any of them.

Of all of them Scott was the only one with any experience of having to approach a situation with the assumption that he might have to kill someone due to his days in the Air Force. Even then he was far from happy at the thought. Of course, all of them had seen a dead body – it was hard not to in their line of work – but none had ever been the direct cause of loss of life. It was an alien concept.

Gradually the blue haze in the distance formed into mountains and Gordon finally turned on the communicator.

"Okay Scott, how are we going to do this?"

Scott's voice came back terse and harsh, as if he was angry at the silence being broken. His younger brother recognised the worry for what it was though.

"I'm going to get the ground-penetrating-radar going as soon as we're within a fifty meter radius of Virgil's GPS." The eldest Tracy glanced at a small screen on his console that showed a satellite map of the area and a small red dot flashing where the GPS was broadcasting its signal, accurate to within half a meter. "If we can find the entrance to that rabbit warren I'll create a distraction and you guys try to get down there to him."

"What sort of distraction?" It was Tintin who answered him, sounding unusually grim.

"Concussion grenades to begin with, non-fatal. I really don't want to kill anyone, no matter what they've done."

"L-logic says you m-m-might have to S-s-scott." Brains said quietly. "Th-they will be using e-e-every means at th-their disposal to m-m-make us leave. We w-w-will probably have t-t-to resort to violence."

"That still doesn't mean that I have to sink to their level." Scott replied firmly. "If we can do this without fatalities then we'll have achieved something very special, and perhaps unique in a war-zone. Dad has alerted a British base nearby what we're about to do and they're sending the Red Cross. I just hope to God we won't need them."

MWMWMWMWMWMMWMWMW

The first indication the two captives had that anything unusual was going on was when a loud roar echoed through the tunnels and dust fell down from the rough-cut ceiling. It was immediately followed by three more in close succession, each growing steadily louder.

"What the hell is that?" Virgil had to shout to be heard over the noise as the ground underneath the shuddered and jumped.

"Concussion grenades I'd guess." Robbie yelled back. "Is it your lot?"

"Has to be." Virgil was confused to say the least. He hadn't known what he was expecting, but an air-assault had not been it. There was another painfully close roar and he clapped his hands over his ears. By the sounds of it someone – Scott he'd guess – was carpet bombing the terrain above them.

Neither of them heard the key in the lock over the tremendous noise so were only aware of the door opening when light flooded in. Five of the guards were framed in the doorway, loaded down with weaponry. The prisoners were dragged to their feet and hauled from the cell as one of the men began yelling in incomprehensible Dari.

"He says that if International Rescue is going to play silly buggers he'll call their bluff." Robbie managed to hiss the translation as they were half-marched, half-dragged down the tunnel.

The last thing Virgil had expected was for his family to go onto the offensive and start a fire-fight, and he felt the icy fist of terror clench around his heart. The last time the Thunderbirds had run up against these men he had been captured and he could only assume that his brothers had made it away safely. He didn't want them risking their lives just to get him out.

Much to the two prisoners' surprise they realised that they weren't being dragged in the usual direction that led deeper into the side of the mountain. Instead the rough floor under their feet was steadily rising and a few moments later the convoy reached a thick tarpaulin sheet hung from wall to wall across the corridor.

Both Virgil and Robbie were forced to shield their eyes as the heavy tarp was pulled back and sunlight flooded into the narrow tunnel. They stumbled on the rocky ground as they were dragged on forwards, temporarily blinded by the harsh natural light.

It took the Tracy a good few moments before he could raise his hand from his face a little and try to peer out at the terrain. It was breezy and a shock went through him as he realised that he hadn't felt the wind or seen the sky in nearly three months. Squinting against the still-harsh glare he began to make out the surrounding tundra.

He'd been expecting steep mountainside, so was surprised to see a flat plateau directly before them, with the mountain rising up behind them. The whole area was pock-marked with deep craters, evidence of the bombing. However, the view barely registered in his mind as he stared up at what was possibly the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Thunderbird One was circling the air – obviously holding fire now that there were people on the ground. Virgil felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared up at the magnificent craft, knowing that his eldest brother was up there.

Pain suddenly exploded across the back of his head and he would have fallen had there not been two men gripping his arms. Blinking away the horrendous dizziness he realised that there was now the terribly familiar presence of a gun barrel forced against the base of his skull.

The shock was almost over-ridden by the realisation that Scott was witnessing this.

And then everything was driven from his mind as a deep rumble echoed through the mountain range, loud enough to drown out Thunderbird One. Virgil raised his head to stare up at the pass between two of the peaks, the sound filling the world with its familiar low growl. The roar of the engines alone had told him who it was, and despite the gun to his head he couldn't help the feelings of giddy relief and joy that purely came from seeing the great green behemoth majestically soaring into view.

WMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two, hold all fire, hold all fire!" Scott stared out of the windshield in horror as the small group emerged from the side of the mountain out onto the plateau. He processed that there five armed guards and one other prisoner – he assumed it was the Brit John had mentioned – but he couldn't tear his gaze away from Virgil. Gaunt, dirty, ragged, but really there, really alive, Virgil.

With a gun to the back of his head, execution style.

The men had obviously decided that they were going to get at least some use out of their hostages, namely as bargaining chips and Scott realised that his initial plan was a write-off. Thunderbird Two came in to hover beside him and he tried to think through the numbing fear to what the best course of action should be.

"Scott…?" Gordon's voice sounded tinny and shrill through the communicator – he was terrified, but hiding it well. "What do we do now?"

Scott didn't have a bloody clue.

"Let's land, at least we can meet them on even ground." It seemed a safe bet and the sensible thing to do, but the _status quo_ was not currently in their favour.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

John was watching the satellite video feed desperately. He had hijacked an American military spy satellite to do so and the zoom capabilities were astonishing – he'd been able to go in so close that he could see Virgil quite clearly and could easily see the gun to his brother's head.

Usually in times of stress he'd be demolishing chocolate like no tomorrow, but now he had even less appetite than he had the past three months and there was a noticeable absence of wrappers.

The young man jumped violently as the radio receiver began to flash again. Of all the times for another rescue to come through! He angrily jabbed at the button to open the channel.

"_International Rescue. Respond."_

He blinked, his mind so full of fear and worry that for a long moment he didn't even understand the language being spoken, let alone process the strange manner of speaking.

"_International Rescue. Respond."_ The voice spoke again, and it was the calmness and coldness that really got John's attention. His mind quickly spun, finally recognising the language and translating the bizarre request. Dari. It took him a few moments to remember how to respond in the same dialect before he answered.

"_This is International Rescue."_ Normally he would have added a 'what's wrong?' to the end of that sentence, but something told him it wasn't needed here.

"_Tell your men to back off or I'm putting a bullet through your colleague's brain."_

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

The two Thunderbirds had managed to land on the rocky shelf, dust now splattered along their sides. John was relaying his conversation directly to Scott, a translation appearing on the small screen on Thunderbird One's consol.

The demands were very simple: back off or the hostages die.

There was currently no sign of any other armed guards, only the five that had emerged with the prisoners and it was impossible to tell if others were on the way. It was entirely plausible that, since the base had been found, the rest of the cell had packed up and moved on, and it was equally likely that they could be gathering heavy armaments or readying to launch a missile. There was no way of knowing.

Scott watched the conversation between his brother and the men flashing across the screen, but the written English barely made more sense than the spoken Dari he could hear coming through the com-link. It felt like the rest of the world was fading away into one very difficult decision.

He knew he was going to have to take a human life. Five human lives to be exact.

Opening the radio link to Thunderbird Two he made his choice. "Gordon, John is in negotiations with them and getting no-where, we're going to have to take control here."

"Understood, what do you want to do?" Gordon sounded relieved that his brother was taking charge of the situation.

"Dad alerted the Red Cross, call them again and find out their ETA. We'll probably need medical back-up." Scott didn't give his brother a chance to reply and switched the channel back to the Thunderbird Five link. "John." He interrupted the stream of Dari. "Stop with the passive approach. Tell them that we are heavily armed and will fire if necessary if they don't release our colleague."

There was a sharp in-take of breath from the other end of the link. "_What? Scott, are you sure-?"_

"I mean it John, tell them."

Scott leant his elbow on the arm of his pilot seat, chin in hand as his brother quickly translated the statement. His finger tapped on the console, just below the automated targeting system. It had been designed for singling out people from wreckage so that it was possible to accurately fire life-lines down to them, but it had been the work of a moment for Scott to rewire the targeting system to the gun usually used to blow obstacles out of the way.

He'd never dreamt he'd have to do such a thing.

His statement was being rapidly translated and he stared out of the windscreen at the small group. They were far enough away that he couldn't fully see their expressions, but he knew from the deathly silence instead of a reply that it couldn't have gone down well.

Then there was a sharp burst of noise as a gun was fired and a drawn out scream of pain.

WMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Virgil hadn't understood the conversation going back and forth between his captors and brother, but he realised John had said something to drastically change the situation when the man holding the gun to his head let out a low growl of anger.

The insistent pressure of the gun against his skull suddenly vanished and he snapped his head back up in alarm. The weapon appeared in his peripheral vision almost at the same time that it was fired.

Robbie screamed.

For the longest of moments Virgil thought that the other man had been killed. The shot had sprayed blood everywhere and because Robbie was still being held in a vice-like grip it was difficult to see what had happened and where the bullet had gone.

"Your man is next, American!" The gun-wielder snarled into the radio. Virgil was in enough shock to barely recognise that the man had spoken in heavily accented English. Instead he remained staring at his friend.

The world had narrowed to tunnel vision; all he could see was the blood that continued to flood across the rocky ground. The man holding Robbie released his grip and the young man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. For a very long moment he lay completely still – long enough for Virgil's breath to catch in his throat – before he let out a low groan and tried to move. The change in position revealedjust how bad the wound was.

The bullet had hit the middle of his left shin and had pretty much blown it apart. It had left his ankle dangling from the shreds of bone and ligament that remained, obviously beyond saving.

Virgil felt the bile rise in his throat, more at what had just happened to his friend than at the gore now spreading out from the damaged limb. However, even that horror couldn't distract him from the gun suddenly pressed against his temple, forcing his head to one side.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMW

There was a tiny part of Scott's brain that noted how he should be panicking, how watching the young soldier being shot should have sent him into a tail-spin. However, his mind was surprisingly calm, caught in a steely focus that the desperate situation demanded. As the Brit fell to the ground he locked the targeting system. There was a direct video feed of what was happening going to a monitor on the consul, and red cross-hairs appeared over each of the men's faces, following them if they moved. He quickly deleted the targets placed on Virgil and Robbie.

The hesitation he had felt was gone. The scream that had echoed across the radio had melted away any reservations about what he was now going to do and he fine-tuned the cross-hairs with steely determination.

No reservations.

The gun was back against Virgil's head and he paused, his finger hovering over the fire button. If the man holding the gun died the death spasm would pull the trigger for him and send a bullet through Virgil's brain.

Wait. Wait for a moment's lapse.

The British soldier didn't have the time for him to wait.

Scott made a decision. Singling out the man on the far end and pausing the other cross-hairs he fired a single shot. He didn't wait to watch the shot hit – didn't want to have to watch – and instead remained focused on the gun at his brother's head. As the dead man fell to the ground the leader with the gun instinctively turned at the noise and for a moment the weapon pointed away into the air.

Scott fired.

WMWMWMWMWMMWMWMW

Virgil had been expecting the shot. Expecting to feel the cold hard pain as the bullet tore through his skull. When he heard the blast all he could assume was that it was the end. It was therefore to his complete and utter surprise when the expected wound did not occur and the man a few feet from him fell dead to the ground. The gun at his head momentarily shifted away and as it did so he heard a second round of gunfire.

The grip on his arms loosened. He was thrown forward as the man holding him collapsed and he stumbled round to see the remaining four fall in a spray of blood.

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Scott leapt down from Thunderbird One's cockpit, his old service pistol in hand as he began sprinting towards the distant figure of his brother. He saw Virgil stagger to where Robbie lay and the bloom of relief that swelled within him was indescribable. It was over. They'd done it.

As he neared his brother – now kneeling beside the fallen Brit – Virgil raised his head and smiled at him; tearful and almost disbelieving at his liberation. Then, as Scott was only twenty or so meters away, he saw movement from one of the fallen men.

The leader was unsteadily raising his arm; a deep head wound gushing blood down his face as he tried to focus. Scott didn't think, didn't even slow down. His own gun was already up and aimed and as the other weapon trained on Virgil he pulled the trigger on his own.

Two shots fired, almost in unison.

The man dropped back down, Scott's bullet lodged in his skull. At the same time Virgil was thrown forwards with a sudden shocked cry.

"_No!_"

Scott heard the word, torn from his own mouth, and echoes of it behind him as Thunderbird Two's occupants raced to reach them.

Not after all this.

No, not after all this.

He finally reached his brother, throwing himself down beside him, his gun clattering away across the ground.

"Virgil! God, no, _Virgil_!"

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Long minutes passed.

Under the burning heat of the midday sun Scott felt as helpless as a little child. He knelt on the unforgiving sand and tried to keep the stinging tears back from his eyes. In his arms Virgil shifted uneasily and coughed, blood dribbling down his chin as he tried to speak, tried to seek reassurance.

"Easy Virge, easy." Scott soothed – although the words felt false and useless in his mouth. Turning his head he saw their youngest brother anxiously scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. "Alan, how much longer until the Red-Cross get here?" He yelled, panic putting an edge to his words.

"Another ten minutes at most." The blonde called back.

"You hear that Virgil?" Scott whispered furiously, "The doctors will be here soon, just ten minutes more. You can hang on just ten minutes more, can't you?"

Virgil tried to reply, but his words were strangled by the blood that gurgled up his throat and he closed his eyes with a pained groan. The horrific puncture wound in his back had not ceased bleeding, despite Scott's best efforts to keep pressure on it. The bullet was lodged deep within his torso, having ripped up through his liver and settled in the lower quadrant of his right lung. He coughed weakly, raising his hand to his chest in a useless attempt to stop the pain.

Ten minutes.

Just ten stupid little minutes – surely he could last that long, surely he could wait long enough for the Red-Cross to get to them.

He'd waited three whole months.

He just _had_ to be able to last another ten measly minutes!

God, how had it even got to this? How had he ended up here in the middle of a Godforsaken mountain range, dying in his brother's arms?

_How had it got to this?_

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	11. Anchor

**Update again! **

**Warnings on this one: There's a small flash-back to some torture here. Nothing hardcore (although it's certainly not something I imagine anyone wanting) but I wanted to warn people just in case.**

**Hope you guys all like this; and once again I apologise hugely for being so slow – I don't deserve how many of you put up with me :D Love you all!**

_God, how had it even got to this? How had he ended up here in the middle of a Godforsaken mountain range, dying in his brother's arms?_

_How had it got to this?!_

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Confusion. A jumble of voices and sounds.

Virgil couldn't understand what was going on around him, the bursts of light and voices shrouded by mist. The only thing that he knew for certain was that his eldest brother was right beside him, and that was at least some comfort.

Was he dead? Probably not if he could still feel the horrendous pain that drummed through his body. There was a pressure against his back where Scott's hand was pressing against the entry wound of the bullet, trying desperately to prevent the younger man from bleeding out there and then. He could taste blood in his mouth.

Time passed. He couldn't tell how much. Minutes, or maybe it was years. From the pain it felt like it could easily have been years but logic said that that was very unlikely.

There were loud voices nearby, a vehicle engine, feet crunching on the rocky ground. Virgil was sure he recognised his youngest brother shouting something but the sounds were beginning to blur into a haze of noise. And then there was an unfamiliar voice, someone leaning over him, Scott was questioning them frantically.

There was a sharp prick of a needle in his upper arm, barely noticeable over the pain emanating from his back and then slowly the blur of light around him began to fade. The last thing he was really aware of was his eldest brother repeating over and over that it was going to be okay.

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Alan sat outside one of the large tents in the British army camp, his back resting against the taut tarpaulin as he balanced his iPad on his knees. He'd set up a video-call to Thunderbird Five to update John on the situation, aware that Scott was elsewhere in the camp having the same conversation with their father.

"They still won't tell us anything." He was saying quietly. "Apparently he'll be in surgery for another hour or so."

"Were they at least hopeful for a good outcome?" John looked as desperate as he sounded.

"Fifty-fifty at the moment. The bullet didn't fragment, but it lodged in his lung after tearing through his liver. And you know how badly liver wounds bleed."

The older Tracy nodded silently. Blood-loss, possible shock and two vital organs punctured. It didn't take a medical degree to know that it didn't look good.

"Tell me it's going to be okay…" Alan's whisper was almost involuntary. "Tell me that after all this he's going to be alright." He looked away, trying to sniff back tears.

"Alan…"

"I know, I know." The young man managed a watery smile. "Think positive, huh?"

John's returning smile was just as strained and false. "Exactly. Everything is going to be fine."

Neither brother dared to think about what it would mean if everything wasn't fine. Three long months of having to watch grainy films of their sibling being tortured and abused and now when they finally had him back, it looked like all their efforts had been in vain anyway. A single gunshot that shouldn't have been possible.

"How's the Brit doing?" John asked.

"They're still trying to stabilise him." The youngest Tracy was looking physically sick at the thought. "Apparently he's been missing for two years; they'd all thought him dead."

His brother nodded. "He's safe now. They both are. And Virgil _will_ be okay!"

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Elsewhere on the base, Scott had pulled the laptop from the Mobile Control unit and had taken up a seat in the corner of the empty soldiers mess. The two Thunderbirds had been moved to just outside the base perimeters and he could see the gleaming hulk of Thunderbird One through the flap of the tent. On the screen infront of him there was a small weather read-out to monitor any potential storms that could come over, and a large diagnostic program.

He had set up a graphic representation of the scenario that was currently playing over and over in his head. Two prisoners at gun point, five hostiles, a negotiator and two friendlies with immense fire-power. The computer software had originally be created by Brains to evaluate rescues that had gone wrong, and was a highly sophisticated piece of programming that could take into account the multiple factors of a complex situation.

Scott was now trying to see if there had been any way he could have tackled the situation that wouldn't have resulted in both prisoners being shot. The guilt eating away at him was beyond anything he'd experienced before. They had failed rescues in the past which had resulted in casualties and deaths, and he'd always been of the opinion that it was his own decisions that caused the failures. The guilt that such events caused was a feeling he'd had to learn to live with, and the faces of the dead that they couldn't save were burnt into his memory.

It had never occurred to the young man – considering how terrible he felt after a failed rescue – that he could ever feel worse. But now he was sitting on a dusty wind-swept plateau, in the middle of no-where with his brother critically – maybe fatally – injured. And it was all his fault. He'd made a terribly bad judgement call and now it was his brother paying the price.

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Hours passed.

The sun had dipped down behind the mountains, so that the base was in the deep shadow and the two Thunderbird machines gleamed gently in the lights emanating from the camp. The International Rescue operatives had been given the use of a small tent near to the field-hospital and had piled their kit bags in a corner of it.

There were camp beds set up for them, but no-one felt like trying to get any sleep. Any attempt at conversation had dwindled long ago and now they waited in tense silence.

Gordon was pacing the length of the tent with a deep scowl written across his face. The rest of the small group – Brains and Tintin included – had taken up seats on the fold-up beds as they waited for any news of their comrade. They had been offered food but despite having not eaten since setting out no-one could bring themselves to touch the plates. Worry took all appetites away.

There were footsteps outside, military boots crunching on the rocky ground. The person halted by the closed entry to the large tent and cleared their throat politely before ducking under the tent flap.

"News?" Scott rose to his feet, resisting the urge to salute as his gaze caught the sergeants' stripes on the new-comers shoulder.

"He's out of surgery,"

"And…?"

The small smile on the woman's face told them the outcome and it was physically possible to see the tension begin to dissipate. The sergeant included them all as she swept her gaze around the tent.

"He's not out of the danger zone yet, but the surgeons have stabilized him. We're currently preparing a medical convoy to take both your colleague and the soldier to a hospital."

Scott nodded, almost in a daze. He truly hadn't appreciated the amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins until that moment. The effects as it began to drain away were already noticeable.

"The other guy? Is he alright?"

"The surgeons did what they could, but had to amputate his foot to save the rest of his leg."

The elation slowly sweeping through the tent was dimmed at that news. It was unsurprising that such a drastic decision had had to be made, considering the damage a close-range bullet could do, but it still came as a shock to hear it. A guilty shock at that – no one there had spared much of a thought for the young soldier, being too worried about Virgil. Understandable given the circumstances, but it still made each of them feel ashamed that they hadn't really given a thought for the poor man.

The sergeant seemed to sense the change in atmosphere and tactfully brought the subject back to one that the family really needed to hear.

"Your colleague is currently still sedated, but you can go and see him whilst we prepare to move them to the nearby airbase for transport."

Scott's relieved smile morphed into a small frown. "Where is the hospital?"

"England. The Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham – it's one of our top facilities."

The group exchanged uneasy glances. As an organisation, International Rescue depended on both anonymity and discretion and whilst they could probably trust the medics on the small base, it was risky to go to a big city. But there was no way in hell that they would compromise Virgil's health for the sake of security. The middle Tracy had been unrecognisable from the little they'd seen before he was rushed into surgery, so there was little worry even if photos were leaked from any of the people here. However, should he spend any significant amount of time in hospital, no matter how hard they tried his identity would be out. And if he was recognised, then the rest of the family would be implemented soon enough.

"W-w-would I be able t-t-to speak with th-th-the surgeons at all, Ma'am?" Brains had the pensive look on his face that usually meant a Grand Plan was forming.

"Of course, they can help with any queries you have about his health."

The small scientist turned too Scott. "T-t-team leader, if you go with the s-s-sergeant to see our c-c-colleague, I'll discuss h-h-his condition with the d-d-doctors. It m-m-may be that our own f-f-facilities are adequate."

The eldest Tracy's expression cleared somewhat. That was a possible answer to the dilemma. Hopefully Virgil was in a condition that they could monitor back on the island. Brains – being a certified genius – had a medical degree alongside the PhDs of his engineering and physics, and was capable of at least monitoring someone's recovery.

Knowing that Brains would be able to understand the ins and outs of the medical jargon better than he ever could, Scott felt confident in leaving the scientists to it as he followed the sergeant to the medical tent.

"Through there." She pointed towards a curtained-off area inside. "He won't be awake for a while yet, but you can keep him company."

Scott appreciated that the woman then left and that there weren't any doctors in sight; this was one visit he needed to make without being observed. The curtain was heavy as he pushed through it – a thick tarpaulin like the rest of the tent – and it meant that the area had to be lit by fluorescent strips hanging from the ceiling. They produced a harsh and unnatural light that highlighted everything and left sharp shadows.

It meant that every single cut and bruise on Virgil's pale face stood out with startling clarity.

There was an IV line feeding into his arm that was hooked up to a blood-bag, and a heart monitor showing a steady EKG across it. Those were the only things that Scott could really recognise and understand. Beyond that there were other tubes, one protruding from the unconscious man's mouth, another snaking out from under the blanket. A clip was on Virgil's thumb, monitoring yet another variable that was causing a machine next to the bed to beep quietly. Scott didn't have a clue what it was doing, but the light on the display was green, so he assumed that it meant whatever it was keeping an eye on was okay.

Once he got past the medical paraphernalia surrounding his brother it was possible to see just how different Virgil now looked.

The young man was pale, although that was expected after the trauma. He'd lost a noticeable amount of weight and the straggling beard he sported did not suit him in the least. Nor did the long hair that had over-grown past his ears and was threatening to reach his thin shoulders. Virgil had never really had any spare weight to lose as it was – his bulk had been muscle-mass – but whatever had been there was now gone.

Scott slumped into the chair next to his brother's bed.

Was this real? He'd dreamt this so many times now.

Well, in his dreams Virgil had been less injured, less broken. Or in the nightmares Virgil had been dead. This was certainly preferable to dead but was still heart-rending.

Gingerly the young man raised his arm up to curl his fingers around his brother's unresponsive hand. The limb was warm in his grasp, a strong pulse beating through it. Reassuring.

"Virgil…?" There was a quaver to Scott's voice, something very rarely heard from the eldest Tracy. It usually warned of the threat of tears.

He didn't expect a response and therefore wasn't surprised to not receive one. Virgil's breath, directed by the intubation line down his throat, remained steady and the gentle beep of the EKG showed no sign that he had heard his older brother. Scott had known this would be the case but after so long there was a part of his brain that still foolishly believed his voice would rouse the younger man – medically-induced coma or no.

Even so, he felt the need to fill the silence – insofar as the constant humming of the medical machinery could be called silence. He felt like things had to be said and yet at the same time simply couldn't put all of his emotions into words.

Relief, grief, guilt, anger, fear. Some were what he expected to feel, others came as a surprise, but shouldn't have since in such situations every emotion is invariably felt one way or another.

"I don't what to say." He finally managed. "After all this, I don't know what to say." He heard the break in his voice as his breath suddenly hitched. "I don't know what to say…"

And then there were just tears.

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Brains agreed with the doctors that it was okay to transport Virgil in Thunderbird Two's medical unit back to Tracy Island. He had radioed ahead to Jeff and explained the situation. The Tracy patriarch had been more relieved than Brains had ever heard him and he was glad it was not a video call since he was pretty sure the older man had been crying.

It didn't take long to transport Virgil from the medical tent to Thunderbird Two and hook him up to the small on-board life support system. Scott desperately wanted to stay with him, but he was needed to fly his own bird, and since Gordon was the best suited to flying Two it meant that Alan was the one to sit beside their injured brother. There had been a brief discussion on what – if anything – they should do about Virgil's companion; whether or not to take him with them too since he and their brother had obviously grown close if Virgil's reaction to the shooting had been any indication. However the doctors had ruled that Robbie was in too critical a condition to be moved just yet and that he would need to be transported in one of the C-17 Globemaster's that specialised in aeromed evacuations. A giant of an aircraft, the Boeing plane was only slightly shorter than Thunderbird Two and had nearly the same wing-span. Scott had initially stated that if they couldn't help him themselves, International Rescue would at least pay the medical costs Robbie's recovery would incur. The gesture was obviously appreciated but he was quickly informed that the British healthcare system didn't work in the same way as the one he was used to, so he made a mental note to donate a large sum to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital instead.

They cleared their take-off with the air-traffic-control and were given a quick warning about staying out of the airspace on the other side of the mountain range – it appeared that the rest of the terrorist cell had turned tail and fled and were currently being hunted down by the Danish force stationed there. Scott charted the route back to avoid the hot-spot and the two large craft gracefully took to the air, the army base quickly dwindling to a small speck below them.

Turning to face home the Thunderbirds roared off, ferrying the most precious cargo they'd ever carried back to where he belonged.

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It was raining back on the island. This was usual for the time of year – probably the very edge of a tropical storm – and the wind was driving the leaves from the palm-trees. Jeff didn't care.

He stood at the end of Thunderbird Two's runway, his back to the open hanger. His thick grey hair had been plastered to his head in the deluge, the shirt he wore soaked through.

He didn't care.

The wind was howling but the Tracy patriarch strained his hearing to pick out the first signs of his boys returning, pushed his sight to the limits as he stared out into the roiling black clouds and begging them to morph into the two craft. Kyrano was standing beside him, equally uncaring about the weather and with a tarpaulin-covered gurney at his side ready and waiting.

Had they ever really believed that this day would happen?

Sure, everyone had hoped, pleaded, _prayed_ that they would get Virgil back, but had anyone honestly, deep down believed that it was possible? Maybe – Jeff found his mind whispering – maybe they had only ever truly thought that the only way they'd see Virgil again was in a pine-wood box, if at all.

He almost didn't dare believe that that now wasn't the case. Didn't dare to dream that he was going to have his family whole again. John had played them all the recording of Virgil's brief conversation and after the thrill of just hearing his voice again had died down a little Jeff had been able to let pride flood through him at how resourceful the young man had been. Despite everything that had happened Virgil had not broken and had managed to find a way to contact them, to find a way to save both himself and his companion.

He had had the strength to continue as a rescuer long after he was the one that needed rescuing and Jeff had never felt so proud of his middle son and had never felt such self-loathing for allowing the situation to have arisen.

As always the now-familiar guilt rose in a wave of flame and bile: _If only I hadn't sent them out there in the first place, this would never have happened…_

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_Salt water strung his eyes, harsh and unforgiving as it saturated the cuts and lacerations on his face. The strong hold on the back of his neck forced his head under the icy water and as much as common sense screamed for him not to panic and to just simply hold his breath panic was setting in. He kicked back desperately and was rewarded with a sharp spike of agony laid across his shoulders. The cause of the pain was unknown, but that hardly mattered when it caused him to gasp in shock._

_Briny water flooded his mouth and pushed to the back of his throat, filling his lungs. His body's natural reflexes kicked in to desperately bring it back up and someone wrenched his head up out of the water just long enough for him to retch and cough until he could draw a single breath. Then he was forced back down, still struggling as much as being down on his knees would allow._

_Someone kicked him hard in the lower back, he guessed somewhere in the region of his kidneys and once again the air was knocked out of him._

_Water filled his lungs and this time no-one bothered to haul him up to let him hack it out. Horror and panic coursed through his body in equal measure as he twisted and struggled to no avail, desperately aware that there was no fight left in him. No fight, no air. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't _breathe_…_

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He couldn't breathe!

The first thing he could think of, the first thing that crossed his mind was that he couldn't breathe. For a very long moment all his mind could focus on was the abnormal pressure on the back of his throat that completely blocked off his airways. What was going on? What new torture _was_ this?

There was a dream hovering on the edge of his mind; Scott leaning over him, telling that it would all be okay, pleading with him to hold on. Just a dream. Another Godforsaken dream like he had every night, which tormented him with visions of his family until he could almost believe that it was real and that he was safe. Maybe, maybe this time once he lost consciousness from whatever hell they were devising for him, this time he might not wake up at all.

There was a hand on his head, gently smoothing back his hair.

The gesture was gentle, calming and he wondered if it was Robbie. Who else? The thought that his friend was possibly with him took a slight edge off of the panic, enough for him to realise that as much as he had no control over his breath at all, he was not yet gasping for air. This brought a whole new level of confusion to the situation.

Slowly, Virgil tried to open his eyes, surprised at how heavy they felt and how difficult the action was. He was met with a bright blur - which confused him since the tunnels were always dark - and slowly he became aware of the dull throbbing of engines.

Engines that he knew inside out, back to front and every other which way round that there was. He had _built_ those engines, from scratch, with his own two hands. He knew every little shift in their frequency, could understand every nuance of the language they spoke. These were _his_ engines, _his_ ship, _his_… The thought was too much and he felt the unconscious flood of adrenaline and sudden pressure as his lungs trued to respond but were held in check by the device that he now sluggishly realised was breathing for him.

And then all thoughts vanished as the hazy blur of the ceiling was eclipsed by a mop of blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

_Alan_.

He wanted to speak, wanted to shout the name to the heavens as he saw his baby brother above him, but the intubation tube in his throat meant that all he could do was stare. There was no way he could tell if this was real or just another dream, but in the here and now it didn't matter. For as long as it lasted he would just treasure the feeling of utmost relief that built up in him like a fire. It was so fierce and so intense that all he wanted to do was cry.

As it was, the effort to stay awake even this long was taking too much of a toll on him and he could feel his leaden eyelids closing without his permission. However, before he could fully slip back into deep unconsciousness he felt Alan's fingers brushing through his hair again and his little brother's voice – sounding like it was coming from the other side of the world.

"It's okay, Virg, we've got you. You're nearly home, we've got you."

And then, most importantly as he fully lost his hold on awareness:

"You're safe now."

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